November 1st.
His feet were already numb. He should have listened, but it was the first snowfall of the year; he couldn’t believe the skies would dump ten inches in less than two hours. He trudged down the road, away from confrontation, his expensive loafers soaked through, ice crystals crusting on his cashmere socks and dripping in mini icicles from the hem of his Armani grey wool slacks. He wanted to be warm. He wanted to be safe. He wanted…he wanted to be home, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever had one. Still, he walked on; his heart set on a destination his mind hadn’t even registered. The streets were deserted. Where was everyone? Where had they all gone?
Inside their houses, idiot, he told himself. You’re the only one stupid enough to be hiking in a snowstorm. With a snort, he answered himself inside his own head, I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for her.
Her.
He hadn’t seen her since the day they left High School. He had, in fact, only spent his final semester at Sleepyside Junior-Senior High School, and his first quarter had been less than memorable. But the second, that had been something else. Life had changed because he had changed. Because they had changed him, and that change had led to her.
Miranda Michaels. She of the glossy dark curls, those ice blue eyes shining out of her silk-smooth caramel-colored face. Miranda, with her gentle smile and determined spirit. She had accepted him, the changed man; his selfish playboy image discarded like a snake shedding his skin. He shivered, flexing his nearly frozen fingers inside his pockets. In his minds eye, he could almost feel her small hand wrapped around his, spreading her warmth through his icy flesh.
His feet turned, as if of their own accord, down a quiet country road. Looking around, he realized where he was. Glen Road. The closest thing to a real home he had ever had. The snow had stopped falling as the storm passed, but the temperature had dropped. Ben shivered, torn between his memories of the past, and his concern about his immediate future. Manor House was less than two miles down the road, but he knew the house was closed up until Thanksgiving, the residents strewn to the wind, pursuing their individual pursuits and lives. Crabapple Farm would give him shelter, but the hour was late, and the Belden house was even further down the road, as was the newly renovated Ten Acres. Ben’s legs were aching, and his extremities were numb. He wasn’t sure he could make it to shelter before the weather claimed its toll on his body. With something akin to desperation, he turned up a dirt drive. The clouds had cleared; stars blazed in the night sky, the pale winter moon lighting his path.
He’d just about given up; afraid his memory had failed to give him correct directions, when he spied the cabin ahead of him. It looked dark and cold, closed up and abandoned. Ben laughed out loud at the thought. Just like him. Cold and empty. He forced himself forward, stumbling up the steps, reaching for the door. It wouldn’t open, and he cursed under his breath. What did you expect, idiot? Moving as quickly as his frozen feet would allow, he moved around the perimeter of the little house, searching for another entrance. His chilled fingers caught on a niche in the wall. Funny, he thought, he’d never noticed a door there before, and he’d been in the cabin dozens of times. Still, beggars couldn’t afford to be choosers. He grasped the recessed handle and shoved. To his relief and surprise, the door slid open with a crack and a moan.
The air was stale inside, but significantly warmer than the fresher smelling air outside. Ben slid the door back into place and searched blindly for a light switch. Thankfully, there was still power, and the single light bulb burst out with a ray of dim light. Blinking his eyes against the brightness, no matter how low, he looked around. Nothing was familiar. It looked as if he were in a…laundry room? There were hookups for a washer and dryer under a row of cabinets, a large utility sink, and a basic shower pan. Mudroom, he corrected. This was a mudroom, leading from the garden into the house. He had drawn the plans for it, but he had left before construction had begun. Speaking out loud just for the company, he mused, “There should be another door right about…here.” Sure enough, he spotted the door handle, right where he’d expected it. Twisting it, he found it locked, the plate above it showing that there was most likely a deadbolt locked from the other side. “Of course,” he laughed a little hysterically, sliding down to the floor, “No way anyone as paranoid as Dan would make it easy to get in.”
Rising, Ben searched the cabinets, finding a few usable supplies: Six towels, a canvas drop cloth, a pair of coveralls, an ancient space heater and an old horse blanket, along with a plastic shower curtain, some garden tools, and a small bottle of Rock & Rye Whiskey. “Halleluiah!” Ben exclaimed aloud, grasping the bottle tightly and unscrewing the cap. “Here’s to you, Mr. Maypenny,” he said, toasting the empty room and taking a deep draught. The liquid raced like fire down his throat, settling in his belly and spreading warmth through his chilled body.
Maypenny must still reside in the cabin during the spring and summer months, he thought, only moving in with Dan and Tessa when the weather grew cold. The garden would be overgrown, now, the harvest done, the remains lying fallow under the new snow. As he pulled things out of the cabinets to fashion a makeshift bed, Ben thought regretfully of the fresh peas, beans, tomatoes and carrots he had once enjoyed from Maypenny’s garden. His stomach rumbled in response, and he hastened to spread the shower curtain on the floor, covering it first with the canvas, and then with the horse blanket, creating a narrow, but soft, pallet. He pried off his ruined shoes and peeled off his wet socks, hanging them on the edge of the sink. His pants and shirt followed, tossed neatly over the shower rod to dry. Something hit the ground with a small thunk, and he reached down to pick up a small roll of mints. Not much for food, but they’d come in handy in the morning. There didn’t seem to be any toothpaste or mouthwash in the mudroom. Setting his candy on the sink, he pulled the coveralls on, fastening the buttons. They were baggy, the legs a little long, but that would work to his advantage. Ben plugged in the space heater and turned it on, praying that it would work without catching on fire. The fan sputtered a little, and the room filled with the smell of burning dust, but the heater held, pushing out a small, but steady stream of warm air.
Relieved, he sank to his bed, reaching for the whiskey bottle. Another long draw on the bottle, and he covered himself with the towels and curled up. Safe, now, his mind wandered back to the topic that had driven him out into the cold night.
Miranda.
In her dreams, the city burned, fire lighting up the night sky. Hand in hand, they ran, escaping the flames, running toward salvation. The world shifted, and they stood on a manicured lawn, the smell of freshly cut grass surrounding them. A huge mansion towered above them, austere and somewhat forbidding. He drew her forward, pulling her toward the house, nearly dragging her as she held back, her feet heavy, almost as if something was holding her back. A noise, almost a growl, caught her attention and she stopped dead, refusing to move. “What?” he asked.
“Shh! Hear that?”
He tilted his head, listening. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“It was an animal, I think,” she whispered. “Something growling.”
He shook his head, the golden strands falling across his forehead, framing those gorgeous hazel eyes. “The only thing growling is my stomach,” he assured her. “Come on. My parents are weird, but they don’t bite. I promise.”
The growling sounded again, louder. Miranda looked around, but all she could see was the long expanse of lawn and the increasingly foreboding house. A couple waited on the steps to the house. They were tall and attractive, and she could see the resemblance between them and the handsome young man at her side. Similar features. Similar coloring. Except for the eyes. Ben’s eyes were a warm hazel, green, gold, grey and brown melding together and lit from within by his spirit. These people were beautiful, but cold, and they both had red eyes.
She woke, shivering, in the dark of the night.
Rolling out of her bed, Miranda stumbled to her bathroom and turned on the faucet, splashing herself with cool water. Reaching for a towel, she studied her face in the mirror. Blue eyes, pale as ice, stared back at her. She patted her face dry and hung the towel back on the rack.
Ben. Ben Riker. After so many years, so many what ifs, the boy who had broken her heart had returned. Miranda blinked back tears and took a deep breath, willing herself forward, out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. She brewed herself a strong cup of peppermint tea and sat sipping it at her table.
Seeing him had been a shock. She’d followed his career, over the years, but she hadn’t seen him since the last day at High School. He’d gone off to Harvard, while she had headed west to Pepperdine. They had written weekly, spoken on the phone every Sunday, and planned to get together at Thanksgiving. It hadn’t happened.
Miranda thought back to that Halloween night in California, to the handsome, golden couple who had shown up at her on-campus job, identified themselves as Christian and Genevieve Riker: Ben’s parents. They had been coldly polite. They had taken her out to dinner at the Chart House, a very fancy and expensive restaurant. Miranda had been very nervous, trying to keep her hands from shaking as she tried to make sense of the various pieces of silverware and courses. The food had been good, she was sure, but as intimidated as she had been by the Rikers, she would have been hard pressed to describe one item she had eaten.
“Pepperdine,” Genevieve said, patting her mouth with her napkin, “is a very nice school. You’re a scholarship student, I presume?”
“Partially, yes, Mrs. Riker.”
“You have unusual coloring,” Christian noted. “What is your family background?”
Miranda swallowed her irritation. “My maternal great-grandparents are from Kenya,” she said. “My father’s family is mostly Swedish and South African.”
“And socially?” Genevieve asked, her eyes, so like her son’s, were colder than Miranda had ever seen Ben’s. “What do your parents do?”
“My father is a teacher. My mother is a minister.”
Genevieve Riker’s mouth pursed, her features contorting into something frightening and almost hideous. “Do you really think you’re on an equal footing with Benjamin, my dear?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Do you not find it odd that Benjamin made no effort to introduce you to his parents? His family?” Christian Riker stared at her coolly, his handsome face without expression.
Miranda stared at him. “I’ve met his aunt and uncle,” she replied, “and his cousins. And, when his other uncle and grandparents came to graduation, I met them, too.” Feeling her temper rise, she tilted her head and asked, “I didn’t meet you, because you didn’t come to graduation. Why not?”
“We had a pressing engagement,” Genevieve said, waving her hand as if the entire situation were beneath her acknowledgement. Leaning forward slightly, she focused directly on Miranda. “You seem like a nice girl, Amanda,”
“Miranda. My name is Miranda.”
“Of course. Miranda. As I said, you seem perfectly pleasant, you’re pretty in an exotic kind of way, and you’re obviously quite bright. But you’re not in my son’s league.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m sure you do, my dear.” Christian patted her hand. “You’re more suited to be a bit on the side. Benjamin needs a woman who is his equal, one who understands the social obligations required of his status, one who can further his career and standing.”
“One who knows the difference between her fish fork and her dessert fork,” Genevieve finished, her tone snide. Miranda flushed with embarrassment.
Christian signaled to the waiter. “We’ve said what we came to say, my dear,” he told her. “I’ve obtained a cab to take you back to your dormitory. It’s been paid for, so you needn’t concern yourself with the cost.”
If anything, Miranda flushed deeper, anger and pain vying with humiliation and insecurity. The Rikers glided out of the restaurant, while she sat at the table, her stomach aching. She’d known, of course, that Ben’s family was obscenely wealthy, but all of the ones she’d met had been so nice.
Until now.
She wondered how two people who looked so good on the outside could be so horrible on the inside? They were like a perfect crust on a maggot-infested, rotted pie. How could they create someone as sweet as Ben? She thought back to his reputation as a selfish, spoiled delinquent, and understood a little better the whys and ways of his past behavior. But that wasn’t her Ben. Somehow, despite his parentage, Ben was a good man, an honest and accepting man with a strong spirit, and a pure soul. She needed to speak to him. She needed to hear his voice, to let his love sooth away the sting of his parents’ nastiness.
She rose from the table and made her way outside. There was no taxi waiting. She’d have to hitch a ride home, or walk the eight miles. As she marched North out of the parking lot, the sky began to rain.
Walking in the chilly rain, she caught a cold. The cold became bronchitis, and then pneumonia. She hadn’t made it home for Thanksgiving, had been unable to do much at all, save for cough and sleep. She had managed one call to Ben before sickness stole her voice and her strength. He hadn’t been home. Within a month, the letters tapered off and the telephone calls ceased.
When she finally recovered, a week before Christmas, Miranda had sent a letter. She’d poured her heart out to him, about her feelings, about his parents, about her illness and its effect on her schoolwork.
The letter came back, unopened, stamped, “Return to Sender”.
Miranda put it in a shoebox with the letters and trinkets Ben had given her. She picked up the pieces of her broken heart, taped them together and went on with her life. She went on a mission trip to Africa, and another to Guatemala. She graduated with the highest honors, and took a job back in Sleepyside with the non-profit group, “Food for the Spirit”. Her life was orderly. Her life was good.
Until.
It was Desmond’s fault, Miranda thought. He had brought Ben Riker crashing back into her life. This time her boss had gone too far with his matchmaking ways. She and her friend, Diana had been chatting about their shared past at a fundraiser, when the subject of Ben had come up. Desmond must have been eavesdropping, the little s.o.b. Two weeks later, and who shows up to discuss the plans for the new Food Bank? Benjamin Riker, in the flesh.
In the very nice flesh. Tall, muscled and as gorgeous as ever he had nodded modestly when Desmond introduced him to the room of board members and donors. In High School, he’d always hated speaking in public, but he seemed to have grown past that over the years. Ben’s voice had filled the room, every bit as warm and golden as she remembered, as he explained the details of his design. His eyes had landed on her face, and he’d stuttered, just slightly, before continuing with his presentation. He nodded again at the applause as he finished, and then took his seat, his eyes searching out Miranda, barely leaving her the rest of the meeting. It had made her uncomfortable, his unrelenting attention, but she was confused. She couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable in a bad way, or in a good one.
After dinner came the mingling. Miranda was usually good at mingling, but tonight she just wanted to run and hide. She worked her way through a clump of prospective donors, a smile plastered on her face, her eyes set on the door. She was ten feet from the exit when he stepped in front of her.
“Miranda.” That was all he said. Just her name, in that same, warm tone he’d always used, but she detected something more, something different.
“Ben,” she replied, trying to maintain her smile, her heart aching along its shatter points. “You’re looking well.”
“You are more beautiful than I remembered,” he said softly, and she heard that note again. It almost sounded like longing.
“Thank you.” She licked her lips. “I…I really need to go.”
“Miranda, please?” She looked up at him. She couldn’t help herself. She gazed into his gorgeous hazel eyes as he spoke. “I’ve never understood why you stopped talking to me. I’m here until the twelve-twenty train tomorrow afternoon. Please? Can we have an early lunch and talk?”
She felt her spine stiffen, and, as if watching from a distance, saw herself yanking away from him. “You don’t know why I stopped talking to you? That’s rich, isn’t it? You know damned well. Leave me alone, Mr. Riker. Return to Sender. Go back to the City. Go to Hell. I don’t care, as long as you go and never come back!” She spun on her heel and left him standing at the door.
Now, sitting at her kitchen table, holding her nearly cold cup of tea, Miranda replayed the scene in her mind—and a scene it had been. “I don’t make scenes,” she told herself sternly. “I don’t tell perfectly respectable architects to go to Hell, either. Oh, sheesh! I told him not to come back, too!” She pushed away from the table, dumping and rinsing her cup out and leaving it in the drainer before she made her way back to her bed. Her cold and lonely bed.
She pulled her comforter up around her ears and tried to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the shock and hurt in Ben’s eyes when she turned on him. Maybe I’m wrong, she thought. Maybe he really doesn’t know. She tried to recall that horrible autumn, but the details were hazy, lost in morphine-laced cough suppressant and antibiotics. She frowned, her vague memories contrasting with the pain in Ben’s eyes. Maybe she owed him the chance to explain. She looked over at her clock. The time glowed back at her. 3:15 a.m.
He woke to bird song. That, in itself, was odd. Opening his eyes brought down a sense of total confusion. He was lying on the floor in a tiny room that bore no resemblance to his apartment, and wearing a denim jumpsuit. Blinking, he sat up. Where…? Then, it all came back to him. He was in the mudroom at Maypenny’s cabin. He’d left the ballroom, against the advice of at least a half dozen fellow attendees, and hiked through a snowstorm to get here.
Stretching, he sat up, wondering if he’d have to hike through the snow to get back in time to catch his train. Rubbing his eyes, he looked at his watch. It read 10:33 a.m. Rising, Ben peeked out the window. It was muddy, but it looked as if most of the snow had washed away. Ben checked his shoes. They were mostly dry, the leather stiff and stained, but wearable. With a sigh, he reached for his clothing, relieved to find it had dried overnight. As he dressed and tidied his makeshift camp, Ben’s thoughts wandered back to Miranda. Damn, she had looked good. The same strong woman, wrapped up in gorgeous. Yet, the look in her beautiful eyes, the scorn in her voice when she’d told him to go to hell, those things had hurt.
After all, he wasn’t the one who had ended things with her. He had called, multiple times, only to be told she wasn’t available. He’d hovered over the butler, checking the post, hoping for a letter, or for a response to the notes he sent almost daily to California. It was his father who had finally told him to face facts: Miranda had moved on, and it was time Ben did, too.
And, so he did. He packed up his clothes with his shattered heart and rented an apartment a few blocks from Harvard. He switched his major from Business to Architecture, and concentrated fully on his studies. He was seen at social events with carefully selected women chosen by his mother: Women who were lovely and socially connected, but generally blonde, bland and boring. He’d graduated with honors, aced his boards, and joined an architecture firm, where he had recently purchased a full partnership. He was successful…and alone.
Dressed again, Ben tied his tie and tried to smooth his hair with his hands. As he stepped into the brisk November air, he considered his options. If he was very lucky, he might catch a ride into town with a friendly neighbor. If not, he had about an hour trudging through the mud. Either way, he should have time to grab a late breakfast or early lunch at Wimpy’s before his train. Securing the door, he hunched his shoulders and headed for the road.
“I’m an idiot.” Miranda muttered the statement as she tugged her coat collar tighter and stuffed her hands into her pockets. The day was cold, although the early snow had melted into mud. Sitting on the bench in front of the station, she cast a glance at the art deco clock. It was almost noon, and she had been waiting for nearly an hour.
“You’re an illusion.”
The voice took her by surprise. Turning her head, she looked up at a most unusually disheveled Benjamin Riker. He was wearing the same suit he’d had on the night before, but he was far beyond the slightly mussed look of a man taking the ‘walk of shame’. No. This man looked like he’d spent the night foraging in the woods. She let her eyes sweep over him from toe to head, taking in the waterlogged shoes and mud-splattered trousers. His suit jacket was stained, and his shirt looked stiff, the wrinkles set in as if they’d been pressed with a steamroller. His hair stood up in messy spikes, and she’d swear there was a small twig caught in one of the tufts.
“Or a delusion. Dear God! I’ve finally lost my mind.”
Those words brought Miranda back into her own head again. Ben was pale, and his hands seemed to be shaking. Without thinking things through, she stood and reached for those hands. They were as cold as ice. “Ben,” she said, “You’re freezing.”
“It’s kind of cold out,” he told her, his voice soft. “You can’t be real.” He looked around, his eyes coming back to hers. “Did I die in the woods.”
Miranda was worried. Ben was rambling and vague, not at all like himself. “What happened to you?” she asked. “Let’s get you inside the station where it’s warm.”
“No. Not until I know I’m not dead or dreaming.” In a heartbeat, his still cold hands had cupped her face, and he was kissing her. His lips were rough and chapped, and he tasted of cheap whiskey and wintergreen. “You’re real,” he breathed, pulling away. “You are honestly real.”
Caution went out the window, replaced with want and need, and she kissed him back, pulling him close, her hands clutching at his spikey hair. It was a thorough kiss; hot enough to bring color back into his face. As they came up for air, it was Ben who suggested, “Can we go to somewhere and talk?”
“You’ll miss your train,” she told him.
“Damn the train,” he responded. “I need…I want…I…please?”
“Let’s go.” That was all she had to say. The years rolled back, disappearing as quickly as the first snowfall. He took her hand, and they walked away as the train pulled into the station.
Three Years Later
November 1
That had been the end of wasting time and the beginning of everything wonderful: The real and true start of Benjamin Riker’s life. Over coffee and omelets at the Sleepyside Café, they had talked—really talked—for the first time in seven years. The deception of his parents had been revealed, and Miranda had taken him home with her and shown him the last letter. She sat quietly while he read it, and Ben knew he’d never be able to remember those words, her quiet questioning of his lack of response without wanting to cry. He had cried when he read it, tears of regret and tears of betrayal. She had wrapped her arms around him and soothed his tattered soul.
That’s what she did. What she had always done.
They’d been married on Thanksgiving Sunday, in the little stone church where Miranda’s mother preached. His parents hadn’t been invited.
Ben had no regrets. The people who mattered to him—his aunts and uncles, his grandparents, his cousins and friends—they had all been there to share in his joy. They had been there two years later to welcome Adam Charles Riker into the world. Those relations, and the parents he had been given when he married, were all the family Ben required.
He straightened his tie and kissed his wife. His wife. Taking his son from her arms, he chucked his chin and gave his little tummy a tickle. Two teeth and a trickle of drool appeared as Adam chuckled his amusement. Ben set him gently in his high chair and ruffled his dark curls. “Be good for your mama, son,” he said, picking up his briefcase from his chair. “I’ll be home by five tonight, Miranda. Call me if you want me to bring home dinner.”
“I’ll handle dinner tonight,” she told him, re-straightening his tie. “But you can bring home some flowers for tomorrow. It’s the second.”
“Carnations,” he told her, leaning in for another kiss. “I swear people think we’re crazy.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Nope. I am crazy.” He grinned as he pulled on his overcoat. “Crazy for you.”
“Back attcha, big shot,” she told him. “Now go, before you miss that train.”
“Best thing I ever did was miss a train,” he reminded her as he opened the door. Behind him, Adam squealed, and he could hear Miranda laughing.
It was a short walk to the train station. The November air was crisp and cool, the leaves changing and beginning to drift lazily to the ground. Before long, the snow would begin to fall, but not today, nor tomorrow. Ben passed the bench where he had reunited with his one, true love. As he did every time he walked up to the station, he gave the back of the bench a pat. Three years tomorrow.
They came back every year to lay flowers on the spot.
Author Notes
So, a while back, when we were having an author challenge, Trish came up with some prompts. I don’t often use prompts, personally, but someone wondered if we could use all of them in a single story. I kind of liked the idea, so I took it as a challenge. This is that story. Below are the prompts. They are also in blue in the story.
1.It was the first snowfall of the year.
2.He hadn’t seen her since the day they left High School.
3.The city burned, fire lighting up the night sky.
4.Silk.
5.She studied her face in the mirror.
6.The smell of freshly-cut grass.
7.They came back every year to lay flowers at the spot.
8.The streets were deserted. Where was everyone? Where had they all gone?
9.This time her boss had gone too far.
10.Red eyes.
11.Stars blazed in the night sky.
12.He woke to birdsong.
13.‘Shh! Hear that?’ ‘I didn’t hear anything.’
14.He’d always hated speaking in public.
15.She woke, shivering, in the dark of the night.
16.The garden was overgrown now.
17.He’d never noticed a door there before.
18.She’d have to hitch a ride home.
19.‘I told him not to come back too!’
20.His feet were already numb. He should have listened.
