The Line That Binds

  The Line That Binds

  Copyright © 2013

  J. M. Miller

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, events, occurrences, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and the story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Regina Wamba, Mae I Design and Photography

  www.maeidesign.com/‎

  Interior Design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats

  https://www.facebook.com/FictionalFormats‎

  Editing by Red Road Editing / Kristina Circelli (www.circelli.info)

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Zoe

  Never wait for the magic.

  Make your own.

  No light shines the same.

  No shadow conceals the ache.

  Once was passion, now is pain.

  The touch of skin, the smell of rain.

  Eyes like fire have burnt to ash.

  Vacant.

  Gone.

  Cold and frail.

  The secrets, the whispers,

  a broken trust.

  Forever it will stay,

  crippling until I break.

  Chilly night air breezed through the bedroom window. Dahlia slid the patched quilt she’d stitched together years ago from her body, welcoming the cool draft. A wooden lantern hung beside the door, its flame weak and dim. But the moon’s hazy glow compensated for the dull flame nicely, brightening the otherwise darkened room. The soft light pressed into a crack in the window’s pane, projecting sparkles along the wall like hundreds of brilliant diamonds. She watched them for a while, wishing she was staring at a real one upon her finger.

  Dahlia turned onto her side and ran her hand along the curve of Charles’ back, spreading her fingers over his relaxed muscles. He groaned in his sleep, a sound she’d heard many times before. She pressed her lips to the narrow line between his shoulder blades and smiled against his skin. She wanted to hear his sleepy sighs again; she longed to hear them forever. With him in her bed this night, the possibility remained.

  Charles stirred, rolling onto his back, stretching his arms wide. She took advantage and pressed her body to him, draping her arm over his chest and nuzzling into his side. His arm folded around her, stroking her skin with his calloused fingers, sending shivers through her body.

  “I love you,” Dahlia whispered and pressed tiny kisses down his chest.

  Charles’ body jerked, waking fully and taking in his surroundings. He glanced down at Dahlia tucked under his arm. His eyes softened and the corners of his lips tipped down. “I have to go,” he said, sitting up and moving to the edge of the bed to don his pants.

  Dahlia tucked the quilt around her, feeling the night air’s bite for the first time without Charles’ warmth beside her. But the air wasn’t the only reason for the chill. She now had his final answer.

  He was leaving.

  “Please,” she begged softly. “If it’s about your father, we can flee. We can go together to the north, or out west.”

  “And you’d leave your mother alone to care for my family?” Charles asked, buttoning his pants while he peered out the open window. The moon’s fragile light glinted over the strands of his dark black hair. She noticed its growth and remembered the last time she’d cut if for him.

  “She’ll call upon my aunt so she won’t be alone for long. She loves your family,” Dahlia replied, wrapping the quilt around her body as she stood behind him.

  Charles’ gaze moved around the property. No one was awake yet to tend the gardens or work the fields. All was quiet─maybe quiet enough for him to forget. Dahlia watched his eyes look to the well, recalling last year when he’d returned to her after the war. She’d helped him set the very stones now shadowed by the night. She ran her hand up his shoulder, thinking back to that time when his promise was for forever.

  Charles’ shoulders fell with a sigh as he shifted his view to the new mansion his father had built as a wedding gift. He turned back to the bed and grabbed his shirt. “You know I can’t do this, Lia. I’m to wed Sarah tomorrow. It’s expected of me.” Charles pulled his shirt on and stepped into his boots.

  “Stop,” Dahlia said as Charles moved to the door. She tightened the quilt around her body, aching to go back an hour before when her body was covered only by him. Careful not to make a noise that would wake her mother down the hall, she moved closer and tugged his shirt. “You love me. Not her.”

  Charles slid out of her grasp and removed the lantern from its peg then traveled down the stairs.

  Dahlia followed, the quilt dragging at her feet as she stepped onto the dirt floor of the cellar. “You can’t do this, Charles. I love you. I want to be with you.”

  “We can’t be together, Lia.” His eyes darted back to her, narrowed with pain and fear. He slid a long lock of her wavy brown hair off her shoulder and mumbled, “I shouldn’t have come tonight. I was mistaken and I’m sorry.” He pushed the wooden door open, holding the lantern toward the tunnel that led to the main house─Stockton House. “We can never do this again. I love her. Not you,” he said. His green eyes went cold then, like they’d never told the truth before, like they’d never see the truth again.

  Dahlia freed one hand from the quilt and slapped it hard against his cheek. The sting echoed up her arm, returning all the pain to her heart. “You’re lying. I know you love me!” she cried and stepped closer to him.

  She turned his body with one hand and pulled his face to hers with the other, dropping the quilt to her feet. Charles remained still as Dahlia pressed her lips to his wounded cheek. Her gentle kisses traveled along his face until they met his lips, where the kiss grew urgent with want, with love.

  He responded, gripping her waist with his empty hand and pressing her between himself and the earthen wall. His hand clung to her bare skin as his mouth claimed hers with enough desire to haunt her for a lifetime.

  Tears flowed from Dahlia’s dark eyes as his kiss began to fade. Charles looked down at her and backed away. “Wait!” Dahlia demanded, thrusting her body against his and looping her arms around his neck.

  “No, Dahlia,” Charles replied sternly, shoving her body away.

  “I will not let you leave me,” she said and moved close to him again, running her hands up his chest, her eyes pleading with his.

  He scowled and whipped the back of his hand across her soft face. “You will know your place from here
on, Dahlia.”

  She crumpled to her knees in front of him, cradling her cheek. “My place is no longer here,” she said, her voice a mere whimper.

  “Whether you stay or go, I will be married. And this will never happen again,” Charles said gruffly, turning toward the door.

  “I will never forget you,” she said as she wept. It was not a pledge to him, but a harsh reality. She knew the memory would be the curse that lived with her forever.

  The light of the room faded as the lantern’s halo disappeared down the passageway. Darkness consumed the room, accompanied by the sound of quiet sobs and the smell of wood and soil. And when her tears ran dry, no longer burning misery into her skin, Dahlia rose up. She vowed her curse wouldn’t be alone. She knew she would never forget, but she would make sure his family never remembered.

  “Are you ready?” I asked Pop, stepping beside him on the slate steps outside Janine’s house. More people were arriving, tramping through the lawn and shuffling past us to the door. As expected, I recognized some as employees from years ago.

  “As I’ll ever be,” he replied when we stepped inside.

  The house was dark and empty. Not in a physical sense. There was plenty of crap in this place: depressing paintings on the walls, coat racks and tables cluttering the hallways, and pieces of antique junk stacked on any flat surface available. Everything displayed a thick layer of dust due to the housekeeper’s recent neglect. Nope, it wasn’t physical. The dark emptiness was all about feeling. A void of existence. It was the cold, hard truth about the last years of Janine’s life, and her mind. It was sad to think about really, living in the dark with nothing to hold on to, no memories to cling to in the end. People say dying in your sleep is the most peaceful way to go. That’s the way she went, though I know it wasn’t peaceful. I doubted anyone would want to go the way she had, whether a normal sleep, Morphine induced, or even a coma. That sleepy peace couldn’t have applied to her because her mind was never at ease. She was lost and couldn’t remember any of it. Beginning, middle, or end. No good, no bad. Just confused emptiness.

  I straightened my tie as we walked into Janine’s grand office. Actually, it was Pop’s tie, my grandfather. He’d lent it to me for the funeral last month. I’d also bought a button-down shirt and pants specifically for the occasion since I hadn’t been to a funeral in close to three years and had outgrown everything I’d worn as a skinny freshman. Of course, there were other, less depressing, dress-up opportunities in between that I’d never bothered with. I’d watched the revolving weddings and parties at the event house─commonly referred to as Stockton Mansion─every week since I was ten, but there was no good reason for the groundskeeper’s grandson to attend. Then there were school dances. To me, going to an after-school function was like going to detention while wearing some lame-ass suit. I’d rather break both legs attempting a double back flip on my bike than sit through the agony of a school dance. Despite my affliction, my girlfriend at the time, Harper, persuaded me to attend one freshman year. The suit I’d worn that night was the same one I was forced to wear to her funeral the following week. That solidified my hatred of suits and school dances.

  Today’s clothes weren’t a complete suit, though the tie strangled me over an uneasy edge, adding to the silent chokehold of this already bitter morning. “Here?” I asked Pop, pointing at the set of chairs closest to the double doors, planning for the quickest escape possible. I didn’t want to hang out in this house any longer than necessary. It was no longer welcoming, just depressing.

  Pop nodded his bald head and took a seat beside me. The buttons on his suit jacket pointed their rims outward, threads straining under the pressure of his bulging stomach. His pudgy, calloused fingers twitched anxiously in his lap. Sitting here was torture for him. He’d been Janine’s closest friend for years, even before she’d lost her mind. She’d given him the old servant house on Stockton Estate decades ago, along with the lead groundskeeper position. They were close enough to make this day uncomfortable, and it was obvious because he sat stiffly on the edge of his seat, refusing to even unbutton his jacket for a little relief.

  “Why are you so worried? She had to have left this place to you or Simone. Or maybe to both of you,” I whispered to him as I watched more people take their seats.

  “I’m not so sure,” he mumbled to keep his rough voice from carrying. “Being that she’s the manager, Simone would be the best choice. But I’m more concerned the state will get a hold of this place.” He stared at the empty seat in front of him as his voice faded.

  We both cared for Stockton Estate. Years after Janine hired Pop, he brought me here and it became my home so I understood his concerns. The state would add the property to their protected park, which enclosed most of the grounds already. They’d make Stockton Estate a historical landmark, and we’d be fired and replaced with state employees who’d read the history to tourists from placards; they wouldn’t care for the property the way Pop had all of these years. We’d also have to find a new home.

  This week had been filled with apprehension, and today was the finale. With all of our worries and all of the possibilities, somehow we overlooked the conventional line of inheritance.

  Family.

  “Well, more shit decided to hit our fan,” I whispered to Pop as I watched a family walk through the double doors behind us.

  After years away, and after skipping her funeral, any thought of Janine’s remaining relatives showing up today was laughable. Yet, here they were, recognizable because of their unfamiliarity. The man of the family escorted a teenaged daughter with bleach-blonde hair and a short son who couldn’t have been much older than twelve. Janine’s niece, Rina, wasn’t with them. The last time they visited Janine was the year I’d moved in. I’d spied on their short reunion from behind the event house’s gazebo. Janine and Rina yelled at each other inside her kitchen while Rina’s husband occupied the kids outside.

  Pop waited until they passed our seats to speak. “I guess they were contacted about Janine’s death after all.”

  The father had grayed since the last visit and the daughter obviously covered her jet-black hair that matched Janine’s with bleach. They took their seats in front of the ornate cherry desk where Janine’s lawyer stood sorting papers with his glasses tipped down.

  “Guess so,” I mumbled, watching the backside of the teenage girl before she sat down. She wore one of those long, skin-hugging skirts that reminded me of a sexy teacher or librarian. Not that I’d ever seen a sexy teacher or librarian, except in a few movies that only used wardrobe as props. Her gear was definitely not prop material. It was designer, and it probably cost more than I made in a year gardening and maintaining Stockton Estate.

  “Is it being held in the office?” a woman’s voice called from the hallway.

  The voice was so loud everyone shifted in their seats to locate the source. Rina entered the office after a few moments. Her hair was also bleached now, though not as sleek or as kept as her daughter’s long strands. She stumbled toward the front of the office with a dark, greasy-haired man lagging behind her. They took a couple of empty seats on the opposite side of the room’s divide, separated from her family. I understood why the kids were with their dad even before Rina nearly toppled over her chair. I’d seen the same jacked-up symptoms with my own mother, too often to count. Rina and her boyfriend were strung out on something. I caught a glimpse of her wild eyes as she looked around the room, observing her aunt’s employees with a blankness that lacked all sympathy for the situation.

  The lawyer stopped sorting papers and stood straighter as the final person entered the office and the doors were closed. “Hello, everyone, I’m Reynold Upton and I’ve been Janine’s lawyer for many years.” He cleared his voice and straightened his suit jacket uneasily, which made me wonder if her death affected him beyond professional bounds. “Most of you are familiar with me from the funeral or from my notice to appear here today. Janine chose to have a will reading to disperse her posses
sions to cherished friends and family. Keep in mind that the will hasn’t been altered for a few years, as Janine lived with Alzheimer’s and was unable to coherently change many details after that time.” He picked up the first stack of papers and said, “If no one has any questions, we’ll get started.”

  He began with ex-employees, who looked the most confused about attending. As soon as he read what Janine had left to them, he directed them into the hall where they were met by Simone with their new belongings. Paintings and statuettes were among some of the common items given. There were some odd items, too, like kitchen spatulas and garden hoses, causing several people to break the respectful silence with bursts of involuntary laughter. I guessed the items linked to inside jokes shared between them and Janine, memories that she had unfortunately lost long before her death.

  Pop and I waited silently. His hands fidgeted, my eyes wandered. The room slowly emptied, leaving a clear view of the family up front. Rina sat with her limbs indecently tangled with her intoxicated beau despite her ex-husband and children’s close proximity. The son showed little interest in his surroundings. He kept his clipped head down, staring into his lap with the glow from his hand-held game system beaming back into his eyes. The husband kept his slender face forward, though the side that faced Rina had a hardened edge. His mouth was pressed tight and his eyes neared a squint. The daughter’s face was much the same, though her eyes shifted nervously to her brother every so often, checking on him. A narrow strip of light peeked through one of the office’s curtained double windows and fell on her bleached hair, highlighting its perfection in the dim room. Her lips remained tensed, but they were still full, like some glammed-up magazine model.

  Pop coughed beside me and she turned our way, catching my stare. Her eyes scrunched, evaluating me, then darted to her giggly mother with a gaze that spit both sadness and hatred. In the next second, her focus swept back to the front as Upton finished with one of the seasonal groundskeepers.