Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 63214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Where would she put blankets?
Her house was massive compared to the little rustic cabin I lived in deep in the mountains.
My spot was just furnished with a stove and few crude pieces of furniture. I’d worn bachelorhood like a pair of pants. It was primitive and compact. My place had a natural soul. It was out there hidden by trees and the rocky curves of earth.
I spent no time worrying about what a woman thought of my décor. I decorated with ease and care in my mind. I’d even nailed a few wooden boxes to my wall to make a shelf and keep all my books off the floor.
A month later, I braided a rug out of old fabrics, and that was where I rubbed my feet after hunting and tramping around in the mountains.
I can’t take her back to my place.
No other women complained when they came. I knew Faith wouldn’t either, but I needed to be at my best with her.
What am I talking about? Get her back to health first. Make sure her mind is okay enough to deal with our love, and then worry about the stupid wooden box shelves.
I rushed through the lower half, passing brilliant little oddities. A walnut table sat in the dining room under an elaborate chandelier of antlers and crystals.
On a red wall tons of paintings of trees hung. The artist had painted the same tree over and over, but in different parts of the year. In one, a gold sun blazed over it, while children of all colors climbed the branches and picked huge globes of different fruit.
In the next, the leaves had shifted to the color of fire—burnt oranges, fiery yellows, and blazing reds. Furry animals lounged in its shade.
Under that painting was another with snow covering the same tree. Nothing was around this one. The tree just stood there, cold and alone.
Did she paint these?
The last image was unfinished. The tree had been started, but not completed. There were colorless holes in the bark. More white canvas than green lush life.
Yes. She painted this.
I’d painted with her many times.
Art was a love we’d shared as kids.
Yes. These are her strokes.
She held the paintbrush in an odd way, causing the tip to curl at the ends and color to slip on white in the most beautiful ways.
Whether sculpture or canvas, her art breathed.
I studied each tree again.
At first glance, they appeared so normal. With a close look, one could see that I was viewing these trees through a distorted lens of madness.
My heart hurt, yet my fascination with Faith blossomed even more. There was so much of her here. Her scent drifted off the paint. The colors bled on the canvas. Emotions did too. Each image served as a piece to the complicated puzzle of Faith.
What is she saying?
I could’ve stood there and analyzed those paintings for weeks.
Instead, I dragged myself away from the wall of trees.
Blankets first and then I’ll start a fire and call Addie Mae.
In the hallway to the kitchen, a framed antique map took up the entire wall. Brett or Faith had stuck silver pins into locations on the map. Tons of pins glittered back at me.
God. She’s seen the world.
I peeked into the dark kitchen and didn’t even go in. It was empty. A regular table and chairs sat on the side. An old-fashioned cooker was in there with grape designs carved in the metal.
What are you doing, man? This isn’t a tour. Why would she have blankets in the kitchen?
I found the stairs and rushed up.
Her bedroom would be the obvious choice, but I’d been avoiding it. I’d already watched her private moment out on the snow. I didn’t need to intrude on her privacy even more.
But this night tested me. For the first time, I got why a man would sneak into a woman’s bedroom and rummage through her underwear drawer. The very thought made me sick, and fucking horny at the same time.
I am not looking at her panties.
When I entered, I was surprised to see an old iron bed in the center of the room, toppled with beautiful quilts. I’d guessed it would be more plush and elegant. Books lined the walls. An old rocker rested by the window. An opened book lay on one of the handles. I shouldn’t have, but I checked the cover, wondering what she’d been reading.
“The Bell Jar?” I checked the author’s name. “Sylvia Plath.”
The name sounded familiar, but I wasn’t sure if I’d read her before.
Setting the book down, I spotted the dresser.
My fingers itched to be bad.
My head kicked the stupid thoughts away.
Get Faith warm and then call her mother.
An old wooden trunk sat at the bed, just like the one I had in my own bedroom. It took a minute to open the thing. The gold locks had rusted. They screeched when I pried them open. A pile of quilts and blankets lay inside with the same color scheme and fabric as the ones in my own truck back in the cabin.