Читать книгу The Unfinished Garden - Barbara White Claypole - Страница 10

Chapter 4

James slid from Warrior I to Warrior II and deepened the stretch. The warrior poses are about strength and endurance. The muscles in his calf tightened as a warm current of energy flowed through his body and into the ground, rooting him, making him strong. Defective, but strong. His thoughts became clouds floating away, and he concentrated on the rhythm of his breathing, trying to ignore the feeling that picked at the back of his mind. A feeling he must not acknowledge. A distraction he could not afford. Not if he was going to kick-start his plan.

He found his focal point—the edge of his yoga mat—and shifted his balance forward, raising his right leg and his arms behind him. If he held the pose for six breaths, he would relax into Downward-Facing Dog and then treat himself to a headstand. When he was upside down, everything was in sync. His mind and body aligned.

One, two, three, four—he began to quaver—five…no, there it was again, that swell of desire. Let it drift by, James. He tried hard, so hard, to push it away but couldn’t. And with a resigned sigh, he toppled.

Lying on his yoga mat, James stared up at the ceiling. Was that a stain in the corner? He sat up. A stain he hadn’t noticed before? Mold? He stood. Anthrax?

Don’t go psycho on me, James. A stain is often just a stain.

It was getting harder to find his own thoughts. The voice was gaining strength, feeding off his lack of sleep, feeding off the stress of the move, feeding off his attraction to Tilly.

Two days. It had been two days and she hadn’t returned his call. What if her answering machine was broken? What if she wouldn’t call unless he moved his coffee mug to the right of the phone? He always put his mug on the right. Always. And this morning he’d put it on the left, which proved he had messed with his routine, dallied on the wild side with those who put their coffee mugs wherever the hell they pleased. See what progress he was making?

Why hadn’t she returned his call?

He was running out of time and options. Tomorrow she and Isaac flew to England, which he only knew because Isaac had told him when he’d called last week. Isaac said his mom was rushing around like a crazed squirrel and it was best not to disturb her. He’d promised to give her the message, but had he? What if he hadn’t given her the message? What if her answering machine was broken? What if that stain really was anthrax?

Why hadn’t she returned his call?

Only two things had slowed the swarming gnats of anxiety in the past two weeks: Tilly’s garden and Tilly’s smile. And he needed to see both.

* * *

James glanced at the fogged-up shower and tried not to think about previous tenants, about the dead skin cells they’d sloughed off, about the dirt they’d tracked in. He hadn’t lived in rented accommodations since he was a student. And then he’d been too fucked-up to think about anything. He rubbed condensation from the mirror and tossed the damp bath sheet into the shower. The laundry would have to wait. He tried to hold on to that thought, but it slipped away and doubt crept back in, roaming his gut, searching for a hold, second-guessing the decision he had made ten minutes earlier.

Decision-making was exhausting, a haze of uncertainty entwining one consequence around another. And there would be consequences for what he was about to do, but it was a risk worth taking. Tilly could help him—he knew it. And if the thought of seeing her again gave him a hit of pure desire, that was an inconvenience he could overcome.

The psychologist in Chicago had told him obsessions and compulsions were like wild mushrooms popping up constantly. That he needed to stay vigilant, always mindful of situations that could trigger his OCD, which didn’t help when he was attracted to a woman who lived her life in dirt. A woman who didn’t seem to care that the flatbed of her truck resembled a bag lady’s shopping cart. If Tilly agreed to work for him, would she let him clean out her truck?

James admired the small tattoo of a coiled, black snake on his right hip, his constant reminder that when it came to snakes, he was phobia-free. Possibly even brave. And he was lucky—might as well monopolize on this good mood—that his body had aged well. On the other hand, that wasn’t so much luck as a freakish amount of exercise. Was fear behind that, too, a determination to control his body if not his mind?

James stretched and enjoyed the air caressing his skin. Naked, he was released from fabrics that itched and scratched. Labels were the worst offenders. But then again, none of his clothes had labels for long. He amputated every one.

If he didn’t know better, he might say he was relaxed, which was not an adjective he ever used to describe himself. James didn’t do relaxed. Volted-up was how Sam, his best friend of forty-two years, described James. He liked that analogy. Besides, nervous energy had its uses. No to-do list was a match for James.

He leaned forward, the edge of the vanity cutting into his stomach. Retirement was playing havoc with his grooming. His hair hadn’t been this long since grad school and the beard still threw him. He barely recognized the face staring back. Or was that the point. If he changed the outside, would the inside follow?

Humming “Straight to Hell” by The Clash, James walked into the bedroom and slid open the closet door with his elbow. He reached into a rack of black, long-sleeved shirts and pulled his lucky Vivienne Westwood off its cedar hanger. Why not? He had nothing to lose except his pride, and that had never stopped him when a woman was concerned.