Brought by the storm, p.2
Brought by the Storm, page 2
“Sir, who is this?” Stefan asked, pointing to the American who had rolled out his cart behind us.
Before I could answer, the chap extended his hand to my assistant. “Eric. Eric Turner.”
The introduction didn’t erase Stefan’s look of confusion or compel him to extend his hand in return. The man who called himself Eric Turner lowered his hand as if it had been slapped.
“Okay,” Stefan stated, shooting me a look that implored clarification. “Where’s our cab? You texted me from the market you’d be ringing for one. If we don’t depart soon, we’ll miss the flight.”
“Whilst stuck in that line, I was searching the internet and saw our flight was canceled,” I replied. “And to worsen matters, my search for suitable quarters was fruitless. There is nothing available.”
“I’m guessing people were anticipating power outages and booked rooms days ago while they still could,” Eric Turner interjected. I must have looked perturbed at his intrusion, as he gulped and glanced at his tennis shoes.
“I’m sorry, but who are you?” Stefan prodded with more of an edge.
“Stefan! Mr. Turner offered to help us with our dilemma,” my mother chastised. “He’s allowing us to stay at his home.”
“Stay at his house?” Stefan exclaimed before looking back to me. “Is that wise? Does he know about us?”
“Know what about you?” Eric Turner inquired, apprehension on his face.
“Oh, nothing dear,” my mother responded. “He just means that we’re not American and may have different customs, but I’m sure you already knew that from our accents.”
I could tell from Eric Turner’s expression that he was doubting my mother’s explanation, and from Stefan’s face that his question was answered that Mr. Turner was unaware of our identities. Because I hadn’t a notion what we’d do if Mr. Turner were to leave us in a lurch as had our driver, I felt compelled to provide a more believable response. “Mr. Turner, what Stefan was alluding to is that he and I are a couple. Will that be a problem?”
Eric Turner seemed to focus on me, which prevented him from seeing the looks of surprise from both Stefan and my mother. “Oh,” he answered, swallowing hard once again. “Um…no. I’m gay too. I guess that makes it easier. I was worrying I might have left something hanging around my house that would out me.” He appeared uncomfortable before adding, “I mean, not porn or anything. I don’t even have porn. Not that I want porn. I just…” His face was now bright red and he stammered the rest. “I just wasn’t sure what little thing could be…anyway, I just didn’t want anyone to be uncomfortable. You never know who is open-minded and who is not.”
My lie had elicited that surprise confession, but none of it mattered, considering we’d be gone in a couple of days. “Ah. Well, very good then. Perhaps we should be on our way before we get wetter?”
Eric Turner was still looking at me, his natural color returning. “Yes, of course. I’ll get my car from the parking lot and pull it up to the curb so you can stay dry under the overhang. Just watch the cart for me.”
When he was about ten feet away, he turned back to shout to us, “This worked out well. Now nobody needs to sleep on a couch. Mrs. Howard, you can take one room, and the gentlemen can share the bed in the other.”
I tried to smile in return, but I thought it displayed more like a grimace. I turned to my mother, who looked amused, then Stefan, who appeared to be mortified. “Oh, don’t you two give me grief. I had to come up with something to cover your mistakes. Maybe try a little harder to keep me alive, if you please.”
Chapter Two
Eric
Mrs. Howard must have realized how awkward it was that I didn’t know their first names as we began loading the groceries and their luggage into the cargo section of my car. “Please call me Olivia,” she invited, handing me a fancy bag with her right hand while balancing an umbrella in her left. “Our assistant is Stefan, who should have told you that himself when you introduced yourself earlier,” she noted, shooting a reprimanding look his way. “The other one failing to exhibit good manners today is my son, Carrington.”
Of course, his name was Carrington. It was suitable for a self-pretentious prick. Carrington seemed more annoyed than embarrassed by his mother’s chastising, ignoring her and making his way to the back passenger door. “You may want to sit up front,” I warned him. “You being the tallest and all,” I explained when he shot me a questioning glare. “It’s just that the back seats are kind of tight. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”
Carrington huffed, but heeded my advice and piled into the front passenger seat. I walked Olivia to the door behind him, opening it for her and helping her inside. Once Stefan loaded the last of the luggage and took his place behind the driver’s seat, I hopped in to take us on the ten-minute journey home.
“What a charming little town this is,” Olivia observed, glancing at the main street we were traveling. The quaintness was evident even in the middle of a storm.
“Thanks,” I answered, making eye contact with her via the rear-view mirror. “We have more houses from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries than any other town in the United States—well, except Marblehead, Massachusetts.”
“Does secondary placement merit mentioning?” Carrington asked.
I pretended it was a comment made in jest, and tried to make a joke in return. “That’s why some friends and I are going to Marblehead this summer on an arson mission.”
Carrington glanced at me with horror, then he must have realized I wasn’t serious. He rolled his eyes and directed them back to the windshield. “It’s interesting what Americans consider historic. Those houses would be considered new construction in our country.”
“Carrington, be polite,” Olivia admonished. We sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes.
“So, what country are you from?” I ventured, noticing the three passengers exchanging furtive glances in response.
After a pause, Olivia acknowledged my question. “It’s a small country that most Americans have never heard of. It’s near Finland.”
Okay. Whatever. If I found out later it was Sweden, I was going to be insulted by their assumptions regarding my intelligence. It felt like they were avoiding mentioning the name of the country, but I wasn’t going to push it. I was more concerned about why they were so secretive about everything, and wondering anew if I was inviting danger into my home.
“We’re almost there,” I informed them, turning off the main street into my development. As I slowed to pull into my driveway, all three passengers studied my house with varying degrees of curiosity. “Home, sweet home,” I mumbled, worrying their silence conveyed disappointment. I gathered from their clothes and manner that they were wealthy, and my house was upper-middle class, at most. I was proud of it, though. Upon seeing it, I had fallen in love with the saltbox colonial reproduction, its wooden post fence, the expansive yard with mature trees and plantings and the barn-style detached garage. The neighborhood comprised other homes with an Early American architectural style, creating a cohesive feel to the area.
“Well, it’s lovely,” Olivia exclaimed with a look of delight that appeared genuine.
I looked to Carrington, whose scowl remained. As if catching himself, he nodded in agreement with her. “Yes. Indeed.”
I handed Carrington a key and pointed to the side door. He looked perplexed. “Let yourself and your mother in so you don’t get too wet. I’ll unload the car with Stefan.” I caught a glimpse of Stefan in the rear-view mirror, and he didn’t seem to mind me including him on the task.
“Will I set off a security alarm?” Carrington asked.
“It’s not turned on,” I assured him.
“But you do have one? One that is operational and can be activated this evening, correct?” Stefan piped up.
“Uh, yes,” I responded, wondering if the worry was related to their secretiveness, or if it was Stefan’s assessment of the neighborhood’s probable crime rates. “But I can assure you, the area is very safe. The worst you ever hear about is an infrequent car break-in by an under-privileged kid from Hartford. Even then, it’s because somebody left valuables in an unlocked vehicle. I always garage the Audi.”
Stefan looked out of the windows in every direction, almost as if preparing to ward off a would-be thief. “Yes, it looks peaceful, as you said. Still, best to secure the alarm.”
They were giving me serious creep vibes. It was too late to back out of my commitment, though. While the security system would protect me from those outside my home, it wouldn’t protect me from my house guests. I made a mental note to place a kitchen knife under my pillow before sleeping.
Chapter Three
Carrington
Once Eric Turner showed us the rooms where we’d be lodging, he descended the stairs with the bed linens and towels to put them through the wash. That left me alone with Stefan, who was in security mode, peering out through the bedroom windows to ensure the perimeter was secured.
Mr. Turner was young, and I was wondering what his occupation could be that he could afford this home. Although it was modest compared to anything I had ever lived in, I had traveled the world enough to know it was many steps above what the average citizen could afford—even in America. Perhaps it was his age that grated on me. It was embarrassing to be beholden to a man who looked no older than a recent college graduate. He seemed sweet and, by any objective person’s assessment, cute to the point of adorable. Those traits emphasized his youth, making me feel even more inadequate about needing his help for mere survival.
My mother came out of her guest room and into ours, a scowl on her face. I imagined she was unhappy with the quarters she was assigned. At least she wouldn’t have to share a bed with someone.
“Mother, it may not be on par with our most recent accommodations, but it’s quite nice for a middle-class home. Keep in mind, you were the one who made this arrangement, and it’s safer than staying at a school or a hotel lobby where any number of people could recognize us.”
“That’s why you think I’m upset? Carrington, I am so disappointed with you right now,” she declared. Then, looking at Stefan, she added, “Both of you.”
“Disappointed? Why?” I asked, though I imagined it related to her earlier comments about my manners, or lack thereof.
My mother crossed her arms and frowned. “Don’t be daft. It’s unbecoming, as your behavior has been all day. I know you’re concerned about what’s happening, but it’s unlike you to treat someone this way. This young man has been gracious, and I meant it when I told him his home is charming. It reminds me of where I grew up, unlike the grandeur you’ve always been surrounded by. Instead of showing him gratitude, you’ve acted like his purpose is to serve you—and that he’s failing. If I were him, I would have asked us to leave. Instead, he’s on the main level freshening linens for us. What he must be thinking!”
Stefan, who had been quiet throughout the excursion, defended us before I could. “With all due respect, madam, we have no idea whether Mr. Turner can be trusted.”
My mother waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Rubbish. How would he have known we would stop at that food mart for lunch? How did he just happen to be standing nearby when the driver decided he wouldn’t proceed with our travels?”
Stefan wasn’t swayed. “The driver could have been an operative from the start. He was the one who suggested where we stop for lunch, if you recall. He could have signaled Mr. Turner when and where to be so he could secure us in his custody.”
“Stefan, Mr. Turner offered us a ride, which my son shot down. Carrington said that Mr. Turner was ready to let us venture on our own at that point. It wasn’t until I approached Mr. Turner that he made the offer to stay at his house. How would he know I would go to him? If Carrington hadn’t told me what happened, we would have left that store and been on our way. To where, I have no clue. Not to mention, if the limousine driver had been part of a plot to harm Carrington, why didn’t he do it during the ninety minutes he had us confined from Boston to this town? Why would he orchestrate an elaborate scheme to pass us to someone else? On top of that, Mr. Turner doesn’t look the part of some undercover hooligan.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Stefan countered.
“And your speculations are far-fetched. Nothing has transpired that would support your scenario.”
Stefan pondered for a moment, but nodded. “Okay, I agree. Mr. Turner might just be a clueless chump, but we should remain guarded.”
“Stefan! What has possessed the two of you? A clueless chump? The man is a saint, and you’d do well to remember that when you dine on his food this evening and sleep in his guest quarters afterward. After the way we’ve treated him, I’d be embarrassed for our country to tell him where we’re from.”
Remembering my position and my duty to represent our country, I felt a wave of shame. Of course, she was correct. I had been letting my frustration, safety concerns and feelings of inadequacy drive my actions, which had been insufferable at best. Before Stefan could antagonize my mother further, I interceded. “Yes, you’re quite right. Our behavior was inexcusable. I’ll apologize to him.”
My mother’s posture relaxed a bit. “Well, that’s a start. And stop being so critical. Whatever this man has, I’m sure he worked hard for, and wounding his pride is not who you are.”
I looked around the room once more, beginning to appraise it with an unbiased eye. I had to admit it was tasteful, albeit sparse. Everything about the house had simple lines and décor, typical of middle-class homes in eighteenth-century America. Mr. Turner seemed intent on embracing the fact that his home was an architectural reproduction, and it shamed me once more that I had mocked his heritage.
“How are two grown men going to sleep on that bed?” Stefan pondered. “It’s too narrow.”
“Well, that shouldn’t be difficult for two people in a romantic relationship,” my mother snapped. I assumed her sarcasm meant she didn’t believe we’d shown appropriate contrition.
“Of all the things to come up with, you came up with us being…homosexual lovers?” Stefan complained to me.
“One of you can sleep on the floor,” my mother scolded. “But when you’re outside this room, you two had better behave like you’re in love now that you’ve put that notion in Mr. Turner’s head. You’ve already said and done enough to raise his suspicions without adding to them.”
“I guess on the bright side, if he thinks we’re a couple, he won’t proposition one of us,” Stefan conceded.
“You can’t be serious, Stefan. After the way you two have been behaving, I’m sure he has no interest in either of you,” she chided. My mother then focused a critical glare on me. “Now, I’ll be going downstairs in a few minutes to keep our host company. I expect you will precede me to extend your apologies?” She turned to exit, making it clear it wasn’t a question.
Chapter Four
Eric
I had a load of laundry in the dryer and food laid out on the counter, ready to prepare the evening’s meal. The wind had picked up, and I wondered how long it would be before my generator would have to kick on. It had an automatic switch, ready to take over if my house lost power. It had never been needed, however, so I hoped it would work. The one thing worse than a house full of strangers would be hosting them without utilities.
I was beginning to chop celery for the pot roast when I heard footsteps descending the stairs. I turned—Carrington was approaching the kitchen.
“Everything squared away?” I asked, turning back to my chore while awaiting his response.
“Yes, thank you,” he replied. He stood silent for a moment, so I turned back to him with a quizzical glance. He looked down at his shoes, some embarrassment reflected on his face. “I’d like to apologize for how I’ve behaved toward you. You’ve been most kind, and I’ve been rude and ungrateful.” He raised his cobalt blue eyes up, laser-focused on how I’d react.
At first, I nodded. His intense stare didn’t alter. “Okay. Thank you for saying that. Do you want to help me make dinner?”
From his reaction, it was as if I’d asked him if he wanted to help me scalp a neighbor. “Um…”
I jumped in to spare him. “It’s okay. Go watch the television or read. Whatever.”
“No,” he protested. “I want to help. I just don’t know how.”
All the swagger and sourness from earlier was gone. He seemed relaxed now, and it highlighted his attractiveness. I knew he was taken, but I couldn’t help but admire him like the time I had first seen him. His hair was a rich light brown with darker highlights, brushed back and falling into waves in all the right places. His eyes were emotive, and his angular face was highlighted by high cheekbones and a strong, squared, dimpled jaw. His lips were a soft pink and shaped for kissing. And I thought to myself, all of that belonged to Stefan, so I willed my eyes to look away. “Uh, that’s okay. I’ll teach you. Nobody knows how to cook—until they do. The secret is, if you can read and follow directions, you can cook. Do you want to finish chopping the celery? Just cut them to the size I’ve been making them.” I handed him the knife. Pointing to the chuck roast, I added, “I’ll start the rub for the pot roast.”
“Pot roast?” he asked with concern.
I assumed it was a dish his country didn’t make, or he was intimidated by the prospect. “Yes, I’ll make it with potatoes, carrots, celery, some onion and garlic and a red wine-beef broth mix. There are other seasonings too, but nothing too complicated.”
“I don’t eat meat,” he stated, as if his diet should have been common knowledge.
“Oh,” I sputtered. “Gosh. That’s…okay. You can have the vegetables, right?”
“Not if they’ve been cooked in beef broth,” he responded. “I’m quite all right and can do without dinner. I don’t wish to be a burden.”
“You can’t just have a sandwich for the day. Hey—you had a sandwich at lunch,” I remembered.
