Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [58]
But where was Angela?
In his haste to get to the stairs, Charlie tripped and sprawled full-length across the potted rubber plant standing by the wing chair. Large tears flooded his eyes as he crawled up the steps. He already knew there wasn’t going to be a girl lying across the bed. She was gone! She had baked the cookies and left. Why, God, why?
He made it to the top of the stairs and struggled to his feet. It was an effort to remain standing. He wanted to bang his head against the papered wall and scream down the heavens. What had he done? The light switch inside the doorway cast the small bedroom in a cozy but dim light. The bedspread was neat and unwrinkled. He didn’t see her clothes or bag and he was too heartsick to look for them. A sob rose in his throat when he saw his hairbrush lying where she had left it. Angrily he tossed it onto the bed. He would never use that brush again. Never.
Great wracking sobs tore through his body as he stared at the brush on the white counterpane. He could have sworn that she cared, that she had seen what other people refused to see: that he was a caring guy, a regular guy.
She’d seemed so accepting—but then she’d needed a place to crash. He hadn’t asked what she was running from; he shouldn’t have been so stupid. He had believed her, wanted to believe she could care for him.
Blindsided. Alone again.
He wrung his hands in a frenzy as he made his way back down the steps. He went from room to room, turning on all the lights. He didn’t want the shadow of Charlie Roman stalking him, seeing his humiliation. She had betrayed him. He had given her sanctuary when no one else would. He had fed her, trusted her, let her see his vulnerability. Some people would call that love. He wasn’t perfect, but he had done right by her. Now he was bleeding inside. His heart was broken; his soul and spirit were crushed.
Furiously Charlie scattered the cookies on the kitchen counter onto the floor. Why had she put them there and then left? She had added insult to injury, letting him know the party was over. A bright light started at the back of his eye sockets, burning slowly at first then blazing into flame. His body trembled and shook and his thick lips pulled back from his small white teeth. An unholy bellow of rage erupted from him and shook the room. After that he was still; not a muscle twitched. It was over.
He was back to square one. It was a simple matter, really, when you thought about it. All he had to do was move on to square two and from there to square three, where it would all end.
Charlie settled himself into his chair in front of the television. He planted his feet firmly on the carpet and laced his fingers across his stomach. He waited. The dark night crept into dawn and still he waited. At six in the morning he maneuvered himself from the deep comfort of the well-worn chair. He stared a moment at the blank screen in front of him, then at the spilled cookies. Nothing moved him. The bright lights didn’t bother him at all. He put on his jacket and walked out the door. What did anything matter now? The only thought in his head was moving from square one to square two.
Charlie sneezed twice as he fumbled with the ice scraper to dislodge the thick crust from his windshield. By the time he had it cleared, his body was aching. It must be from sitting up in the chair all night, he told himself. He didn’t bother with the heater in the car. He would never feel warm again, so what was the point? He drove with mechanical ease to the mall and clocked in to begin his workday.
Amy Summers watched her husband pick at the food on his plate. She had taken extra pains to make his dinner attractive: roast beef, sliced extra thin the way he liked it, and bright orange carrots next to the emerald peas and the mashed potatoes. At the last minute she had placed a small sprig of parsley on the square of bright yellow butter nestling in the mound of mashed potatoes.
“What is it, Eric? Is the roast