Indelible Laurie Buchanan (sad books to read TXT) 📖

bergamot, the middle note is night-blooming Jasmine, and the base note is Tahitian vanilla. Enjoy!

On the main level, Cynthia gravitates toward a cozy window seat with a thick, inviting, jewel-toned cushion and matching throw pillows of emerald, ruby, and sapphire. How did Libby know those are my favorite scents and that I favor jewel tones? Is she an intuitive too?

Cynthia’s eyes feast on the gem-toned palette as she admires the beautiful space. She stops, crosses her arms and hugs herself. With a bow at the waist, she slips off her shoes and flexes her toes. After taking a deep inhalation, she returns to her full height, sways from sole to sole, and then executes a flawless pirouette, made all the more beautiful because of her tall, willowy frame.

In an east-facing pose, she curtsies toward a work-worn desk hugging the wall beneath a massive window. A proponent of supporting local artisans, one of Libby’s favorite pieces—“A statement piece,” she’d explained to Niall—sits on the wide windowsill. Created by a native glassblower, it’s made from cast-iron and five transparent, gem-toned glass bottles that hang from hooks: carnelian, ruby, citrine, peridot, and turquoise.

Cynthia knows she’ll rise at daybreak for the next three weeks to watch the sun’s fingers grip the horizon and pull itself into the morning sky. Its natural mandala of inspiration is sure to stir her creative juices and not only help her complete the manuscript, but serve to lift the heaviness of her responsibilities as an intuitive consultant for law enforcement—even if temporarily.

Located on the south end of the property, one has to know where they’re looking to glimpse Thoreau cottage. A double-take is in order because, by all appearances, it seems to have sprouted amongst the Western Red Cedar woods that surround it. Not much bigger than Henry David Thoreau’s cabin on Walden Pond, it’s the epitome of minimalism—simple, yet full—in natural surroundings.

“Thanks for the lift,” Jason says, hopping off the ATV before it comes to a full stop. “I got this,” he says, grabbing his luggage.

“Would you like me to pick you up for dinner?”

“No. I’ll walk,” Jason says over his shoulder, heading to the cottage door.

The moment Jason steps inside he freezes in his tracks. Mother, he thinks, lip curled in repulsion. He drops his luggage, steps in further, and shuts the door behind him. It smells like Mother. Disgusted, he sets out to find the source. It doesn’t take long to find the odd glass container sitting on the kitchen counter accompanied by a handwritten note: Designed to calm, the top notes are Moroccan amber and sweet patchouli, the middle note is heliotrope, and the base notes are bergamot and eucalyptus. Enjoy!

Patchouli. Jason hates that smell. His mother reeked of the stuff.

Before opening the door, he looks out the window to make sure McPherson is nowhere in sight. He steps out and rounds the corner of the cabin. When he reaches the steep drop-off to a canyon, Jason chucks the bottle as far as he can. Designed to calm, he sneers to himself. What a crock of shit!

Back inside, he takes in his surroundings. The fact that the furnishings are handcrafted pieces from a local woodworker, and that each creation is polished to accentuate its natural character and beauty, is lost on him. When she decorated the interior, Libby intended to convey the idea that “less is more.” She designed the room to say, “Since you can’t hide from yourself in a space this size, you might as well sit down and write.”

The minimal nod to extravagance in Thoreau cottage is the south-facing wall, constructed entirely of glass. It frames a breathtaking view of the Bellingham Bay National Park and Reserve, home to El Cañón del Diablo—The Devil’s Canyon. So named because of the boulder field at the bottom of a hundred foot rock wall. As for the caves, they’re the nooks and crannies between the boulders and home to Townsend’s big-eared bats.

This is the perfect location for what I’ve come to do. Elegant in its simplicity, inessentials had been trimmed away, leaving functionality. And although emotionally stingy, even Jason isn’t immune to the breathtaking southern view. This bird’s-eye perspective of a national park is beautiful, and should it become necessary, a quick sprint will provide safe hiding with its wooded, boulder-laden and sloping terrain leading to the canyon base. If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. He smiles to himself like a Cheshire cat. And I’ve done my homework.

Jason settles himself in a chair facing the wall of glass and sets the suitcase across his lap. He feels a surge of exhilaration as tooth by tooth, he unzips it. It contains his keepsakes, sweet memories of power and total subjugation. He lifts the lid, drawing a deep breath of anticipation. He caresses the top two towels, their memories bring a swelling wave of pleasure. The soft leather chair back supports his head as he loses himself in thought, replaying his most recent conquest in his mind’s eye.

He sees himself standing behind the shower curtain in room 414, holding his breath when he hears a knock—tap, tap, tap—followed by a voice calling out, “Housekeeping.” Familiar with the routine, five seconds tick by before a louder knock—tap, tap, tap. Again, the call of “Housekeeping,” followed by the sound of a keycard releasing the lock and a housekeeping cart being maneuvered. Knife fisted in his right hand, his heart races in anticipation.

And there it is. The look of sheer terror on her face as he pulls the curtain back when she straightens from collecting the liner in the bathroom trash can. He pushes the door shut, steps out of the tub and covers her mouth, turning the frantic, struggling woman toward the mirror. In the reflection, he reads “Devi” printed on a name badge pinned above her left breast. With the knife pressed at her throat, he whispers in her ear, “Devi, you get to watch and enjoy this as much as me.”

A