Mercurial

Chapter Seven

His eyes look even more surreal up close; translucent almost. Blue enough to look real, but light and clear enough to have a glass-like quality. His gaze has a constant deliberate hardness, making it feel like he sees something beyond what the rest of us see. Maybe not so much what's inside of people, but what they carry. The ghosts that ride around on their backs, whether they feel them there or not. I shiver.

"You're going to catch pneumonia."

"I have to go home," I blurt out.

Mr. Davis rubs the stubble on his face, "You aren't going anywhere until the rain lets off a little bit. Probably just a little afternoon storm. I'm sure you'll be on your merry way within the hour."

Wistfully, I look out at the rain and open my mouth to reply, but Mr. Davis cuts me off. "No reason to argue, miss. You may as well hunker down and have a seat."

With that, Mr. Davis plops down on the quilt covered ground and pats the spot beside him in a no-nonsense fashion. To my surprise and disdain, I find myself sinking to the floor. "Good. Now, what's your name?"

"Norah Harrison," I croak.

He mock-bows the best he can from a sitting position, "It's a pleasure, Miss Harrison. I'm We-" he stops, and perhaps it's just my imagination, but the color seems to drain from his face. He clenches his fist very subtly, then coughs politely into his sleeve. "I'm William."

He almost gave himself away, and somehow that brings him back down to earth. He's lying to me, and not even doing the best job with it. I know who he is, I see his bluff, and I have the upper hand, whether he knows it or not. He's not as clever as he thinks. "Do you have a last name, sir? I can hardly call you by your Christian name, as it would be most improper."

"Davidson," he says coolly. "William Davidson."

I look hard at him for a split-second, just long enough to make him a bit uneasy. He sure wasn't that creative when coming up with an alias. But then, he probably thinks I'm a silly little girl, too clueless and out of touch to make the connection. Well, I can certainly be that girl if that's what it takes to get me out of this tent alive. "Thank you, Mr. Davidson, for so generously sharing your... accommodations with me."

"The pleasure's all mine," he says quickly. "Now, what in heaven's name were you doing out there?"

"I was going for a nice little stroll until it started raining. Now I find myself trapped on the wrong side of the creek, you see. I'm hoping it may become easier to cross once the storm subsides."

Mr. Davis' eyes sparkle, "You were going for a nice little stroll way out here? I'm curious what your idea of a serious hike is."

I try to discretely smooth back my hair and straighten my soaked, frumpy dress. Mr. Davis laughs at my efforts, making my cheeks grow hot. "Let me guess; you have aspirations to be a missionary in Africa."

"No, I do not," I say primly.

A dramatic, knowing look covers his face, "You must be planning to start some Christ Church in a downtrodden town out West. Is that it?"

"What is it about me that gives you the impression that I am a woman of the cloth?" All I can picture is Mrs. Delaney in her flowery hats and store-bought pastel dresses; how she performs three hymns every Sunday despite not being able to carry a tune, the way she insists on always sitting up on the platform just beside the podium as her husband preaches because "that's where she hears God the best," and how it takes two chairs to accommodate her. I wrinkle my nose.

Mr. Davis leans back against one of the trees holding the canvas up and places his hands behind his head. "You extra spiritual womenfolk are all the same," he explains in a matter-of-fact tone.