Danger in the Darkroom E-Book

Angel Rupert

• Herausgeber: Bentockiz
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Just like that, she felt empty and disappointed, since he disappeared from her life, being scarce at work, non-existent outside of work. She wondered if she had been played by him from the start, over a year ago. Manipulation and scheming were not a natural part of her thinking. But then she realized, in a moment of maturity, that she unconsciously played him at least as much as he played her. In the end, she didn’t feel guilty.

Leseprobe

Title Page

Danger in the Darkroom

Whispers and Secrets

Angel Rupert

Danger in the Darkroom / 4th of series: Whispers and Secrets / By Angel Rupert

Published 2023 by Bentockiz

e-book Imprint: Calkden Norsh

e-book Registration: Stockholm, Sweden

e-book ISBN: 9789198848632

e-book editing: Athens, Greece

Cover Images created via AI art generators

Table of Contents

Title Page

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Introduction

Through books we come into contact with everything important that has happened in the past, analyzing also current events and putting our thoughts together to predict the future. The book is a window to the world, acquiring valuable knowledge and sparking our vivid imagination. It is a means of entertainment and is generally seen as a best friend, or as a slave that carries together all valuable information for us. The book is a friend who stays together without demands, a friend you call upon at every moment and abandon when you want.

It accompanies us in the hours of boredom and loneliness, while at the same time it entertains us. In general, a book does not ask anything from us, while it waits patiently on a dusty shelf to give us its information, to get us out of dead ends and to travel us to magical worlds.

This may be the travel mission of our books. Abstract narration, weird or unconscious thoughts difficult to be understood, but always genuine and full of life experiences, these are stories of life that can’t be overlooked easily.

This may be the start of something amazing.

Chapter One

He headed up Franklin and Bromfield in the gray, cool day to his newest hidden-in-plain-sight hideaway—an iron bench in the far corner of the cemetery next to the old Park Street Church. It wasn’t really hidden in plain sight, since the bench was in full view of Tremont Street and all its passing cars and pedestrians. But what Zach had quickly discovered after his first couple brief stops on the bench (once to get out of the hot late-day sun, another time to escape a belligerent vagrant) was that if you were sitting alone and contemplative in a graveyard, people assumed you were in mourning and left you alone. Whether they did this out of respect or fear mattered little to Zach (and he was after all carrying a burden that felt like mortal loss). What mattered is that no one, not once, bothered him while he was sitting on that bench.

So naturally he headed for that spot with his new burden (or would it be freedom?) burning a metaphorical hole in his breast pocket. Under normal circumstances, today would’ve been too cold to sit in the shady and damp graveyard clothed in nothing more than his sportcoat over a button-down striped Oxford cloth shirt with a burgundy wool tie (Ed Denning demanded that all his male employees wear a shirt and tie) and khaki pants. But Zach didn’t feel the chill in the air or the cool slats of the bench that dampened his butt. All he felt was the letter—first in his pocket then in his fingers as he tore a ragged opening in the envelope’s top edge and removed the single sheet of linen stationery that had been folded in perfect thirds. He unfolded it to reveal a page of single-spaced typewritten text with only the salutation and the closing signature hand-written in a black-ink deliberate scrawl.

Dear Zachary Sandstrom—

Please pardon my tardiness. Your generous letter and manuscript arrived at a time when I was buried under a mountain of term papers and tests. They promptly became buried under their own mountain of ensuing correspondence only to be unearthed this morning by my faithful housekeeper, six months to the day since you sent them. Again, my apologies for the delay in responding; and my thanks for your letter and the stories and scenes.

I like your writing. Its intensity and gravitation toward what matters—toward the moments and words and actions that change lives—show great promise and natural skill, the sort of skill that can’t be taught. The intensity is so great in fact that it gives rise to my main reservation about the work I’ve seen—it’s too intense, tries to pack too much feeling and lesson in too small a frame. You may wish to consider dampening that blaze and letting that fire burn across a larger expanse of time and emotional terrain—a novel, perhaps; or a narrative poem (there is much about your prose that is but one step removed from verse). But there is vigorous life on all the pages I read; and I wish you much luck with your work.

As to your final question regarding studying with me at Avery, I must first grant that my tardy response may have resulted in its withdrawal. Your circumstances may have moved you beyond such a wish or possibility. However, if you are still interested, please note that I teach two courses one semester each year—one course in literature, one in writing. Currently, the writing course is in long prose fiction. Based on this sample of work, you would be a good candidate for that class.

However, I know nothing about your age or academic background, or if matriculation at Avery would be appropriate for you at this time. If this letter finds its way to you, and if you are still interested in studying with me, write back and give me a little information about your background and goals. I’ll respond—promptly (I promise)—and we can explore these possibilities further.

In any case, warm thanks for your interest and good hopes for your future.

Sincerely,

Barton Cosgrove

Zach read the letter through twice then carefully refolded it and inserted it back into the envelope. Looking at the ragged tear, he suddenly wished he carried a pocket knife that could’ve made the opening more neatly. He slid the envelope back into the inner pocket of his coat.

And he spent the remainder of his hour—some forty-five minutes now—sitting silent among the silent graves, the world passing by on Tremont Street beyond the fence, the murmur of voices, the hum of cars, people leaving him alone out of respect or indifference.

––––––––

Zach stood in the entry alcove and rang the buzzer to their apartment. He did this despite having a key out of respect for Allison’s privacy and in acknowledgement of her current “ownership” of that space. It was only after ringing the buzzer, as he waited for Allison to stop whatever she was doing and descend the stairs to let him in, that he wondered if she’d interpret the gesture as petulance rather than respect, his forcing an inconvenience on her in return for her forcing a painful separation on him. But who had forced the separation on whom? These unsettling ruminations all fled his mind as soon as he saw Allison gliding down the bottom flight of stairs and skip across the foyer in bare feet, jeans, and a cowl-necked white sweater that set off her dark eyes and beautiful shoulder-length auburn hair. She was beautiful as his wife; she was even more beautiful as the unfamiliar stranger he was dating for the first time.

She swung the door open. “You didn’t have to buzz, Silly!”

“I just—”

She grabbed the bouquet of red roses out of his hands even before he had a chance to offer them. “They’re beautiful, Zach. Thank you so much.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I can’t remember the last time you brought me flowers.”

Zach followed as she headed back up the stairs. “Never.”

“That’s not true,” she said from four steps ahead. “You brought me that bouquet of violets after the band trip.”

He laughed. “Our first separation—I was so heart-broken.” When he realized what he’d just said, he regretted both the statement and the admission. He wished he could take it all back; but there it was—out in the open (or in the anonymous stairwell—he was glad she was well ahead of him, her eyes directed up, not back).

She waited at the top of the stairs for him to catch up. “So these aren’t my first flowers.”

He nodded. “True, but I’d picked those violets.”

“Which made them even more special.” Now it was her chance to squirm a bit. “Not that these aren’t special. They’re really pretty—must’ve cost you a fortune.”

“Janice cut me a deal.”

“Janice?”

Zach laughed. This dating your wife was a loaded minefield. “The girl—woman—at the newspaper kiosk. They have a few bouquets for the convenience of their customers—not cheap but cheaper than finding an open florist on a Friday night.”

Allison gave him a sly smile. “She cut you a deal, huh—in return for other favors?”

Zach frowned. “Other favors like buying a full-priced paper from her every night of the week.”

“I’m just teasing, Zach. They’re lovely, however you got them. Thank you for thinking of me.” She pushed the unlocked door open and headed for the kitchen to find something to hold the bouquet.

Zach followed and closed and locked the door behind. He hung his coat on the nearby wall hook and stepped into the living room. Though it’d been only two weeks since he’d been here last (a brief visit to pick up two sweaters from the dresser and a Stegner novel from his bookshelf) and Allison had changed nothing far as he could tell, the space still felt much altered, simultaneously grander (the ceilings higher, the dark night beyond the drawn maroon crushed-velvet drapes more ponderous) and more intimate (the candles she’d lit on the mantel and the dining table casting a flickering, living light, the dark-stained furniture feeling more Victorian than he’d ever noticed—a proper sitting room for improper secret assignations). He treaded lightly across the waxed oak floors and the area rug and sat in the one chair with its wooden arms and cushion seat and back supported by canvas slings.

Allison emerged from the kitchen with the roses in a wine carafe salvaged from a long-ago New Year’s party at his parents’ house. “Best vase I could find,” she said.

“Probably the only one.”

She laughed. “Well, this or the brown plastic pitcher from Wyoming.” She set the arrangement in the middle of the dining table.

“You made the right choice.”

“Thank you. Would you like a beer?”

“Yes, please.”

She handed him the brown bottle she’d been carrying, hidden by her side, in her far hand. “I guess I should offer you a glass.”

“No thank you—the bottle’s fine.”

“I figured. I need a few minutes in the kitchen then dinner will be ready. You can wait here or come on back there.”

He chuckled at the thought of him trying to wedge into the tiny kitchen beside her. “I’ll wait out here. What are we having?” he asked, though he already knew from the distinctive smells in the apartment.

“Lasagna and garlic bread and salad,” she said.

Zach nodded approval. “Sounds great.” It was their dinner-party standard, a recipe they’d discovered together and made together numerous times. This would be the first time she’d made it on her own. Or was it? he wondered suddenly. She did seem surprisingly comfortable with this entertaining routine.

He pondered that question as he sat in his familiar unfamiliar apartment with the beer in his hand and the candles casting a flickering glow. After a few minutes, Bobbi appeared from the bedroom and jumped on the back of the couch and watched him cautiously. Allison was right—she had grown a lot, mainly in thickness, steadily losing that adolescent litheness. Pisser remained hidden. Both cats treated him as a stranger now, somehow understanding and enforcing his changed status. He wondered what other strangers they’d watched in just such a way since his departure a month before.

Allison ferried the food from the kitchen to the table—the lasagna in its baking dish, a small tossed salad in a wooden bowl, the bread still wrapped in foil on an oblong plate—then invited him to the table.

She served him a large square of lasagna and instructed him to serve himself bread and salad. She then filled her plate in likewise order and poured a glass of red wine for each before finally sitting.

He’d watched her calmly throughout these ministrations; but it wasn’t until she’d sat, looked quickly around the table to be sure all was in order, then released a long slow sigh, that she finally met his eyes.

“What?” she said.

He smiled. “This is beautiful. You’re beautiful.” He hadn’t planned that last and blushed along with her.

“Thank you,” she said quietly as she looked down at her plate.

He quickly bowed his head to match her gesture and said a brief and unprecedented—in their married life, at least—grace. “Thank you for this food and the one who prepared it.”

Allison looked up at him with a quizzical grin. “Amen?”

He looked back at her and nodded. “Amen.”

They ate in mostly silence—in part their old comfortable selves, in part their new estranged ones. (Or had they long been both—comfortable and estranged? If so, when had the merger occurred?) The silence was occasionally broken by idle conversation about events at work or gossip about mutual friends. Zach wondered if she’d forgotten about the letter or just waiting for him to bring it up.

After dinner—and Zach’s seconds, then thirds: he couldn’t believe how hungry he was and Allison couldn’t believe how thin he’d become, a condition she noted with no conscious sense of guilt though she was pleased to see him eating so heartily—they ate Allison’s simple and favorite dessert, Steve’s Hand-churned Chocolate Ice Cream in brown bowls while seated together on the couch, Zach at one end sitting up straight, Allison at the other end with her legs curled up beneath her and Pisser splayed out on her lap and Bobbi sleeping against her thigh.

“So what did Cosgrove have to say?” she asked as she scraped the last bits of rich chocolate cream out of her bowl.