Midnight by Anna Dove (books for new readers .TXT) 📕

              A new expression came onto the face of her husband, and a cold look crept into his eyes that Adela had never before seen. It was a chilling look, one that worked its way into Adela’s bones even as she stood there. The hair stood up on the back of her neck and a sudden apprehension filled her mind.

             Gilman stepped quietly down the stair and approached her. Reaching out, he touched the soft spot of her temple, and ran his index finger down her cheek to her chin. Her heart quickened but she stood still as a stone. Her eyes took in the cruelty of his visage, and her throat tightened.

               “Such a beautiful face,” he said softly.

               There was something left unsaid in his words, and she knew it. His face was not six inches from hers, and near imperceptible beads of sweat began to form on her forehead.

                Suddenly he raised the hand that held his drink, and she covered her face, expecting him to strike her; but instead the sound of splintering glass filled the room and she spun to see droplets of whiskey falling from the air, against the wall where he had hurled his drink. His hands grasped her arms with a terrible force so that his fingers dug into her flesh. Wordlessly he dragged her towards the stairs, and as she uttered a scream he released one of her arms and instead wrapped his hand around her face. Terrified, she stopped struggling and he pulled her weight up the stairs.

                   The sunlight streamed through the windows of the ocean-facing sunroom and the waves crashed up against the shore. There was a particular sad silence that filled the room. The crystal chandelier hung still from the high ceiling, an occasional reflection from the sunlight outside bouncing off its teardrops.

            After what seemed a lifetime but was no more than twenty minutes, Adela appeared at the top of the stair. Her blue sundress was torn at the shoulder and she stood quietly, almost childlike, staring at the staircase at her feet. Her lips and face were pale, and her hands trembled. Her glassy eyes stared unseeingly ahead.

                  A step sounded behind her and she started, her breath quickening.

                  “I’m going to meet with another donor, I’ll bring us back something good for dinner,” sounded the voice of her husband, speaking in a gruff tone that to Adela sounded very far away. He made his way down the steps and to the door. The door shut, and Adela blinked.

                  Placing one foot in front of the other very gingerly, she descended to the bottom of the stair, and slowly turned her head to the minibar to her right. Crossing the marble floor, she took a bottle of champagne and slipped from the house onto the dunes, sitting where the dune blocked the house from view, wrapping her dress over her legs as she pulled her knees to her chest. She sat among the wild dune grasses and watched the waves, drinking the champagne as if it were water. The birds soared overhead and the crashing of the breakers echoed over the beach. The humidity rose up from the surface of the water and her skin baked in the brilliant sun.

         From the east, a long way down the beach, an old man was approaching leisurely, sauntering with his gaze on the sand in front of him. He wore white linen to protect himself from the sun. As he neared, she saw that he was perhaps in his late seventies. As he passed in front of her, far down by the shoreline, he stooped to pick up a shell, and then as he straightened up again, he caught sight of her and stopped for a moment, and then raised his hand.

         She raised hers as well mechanically. Breaking his stride along the shoreline, he climbed up the sand slope to where she sat at the base of the dune, and then sat down a few feet away at a respectful distance.

         He had leathery and weathered skin, and dark brown eyes, and hair whiter than snow that matched the pureness of his linen. Adela thought he looked like a sketch she had seen before, perhaps in a storybook.

         “Mind if I rest my legs for a minute?”

         “Not at all,” said Adela in a dull tone, leaning back on the dune.

         “Thank you,” said the man, and turned his head to the waves, after noticing the half--empty bottle and the glassiness of Adela’s splendid eyes. His gaze rested momentarily on the bruises that seemed to be very fresh on her wrists, arms, and neck. Adela felt his stare and a flush crept into her cheeks.

         “My husband is running for governor,” said Adela. “They’re all celebrating in there, he’s thrown a big party. A lovely time--all of our friends and family. I was so overwhelmed with the love and support they are showing us--I had to come out here for a moment to think.”

         “Naturally.”

         A moment of silence.

         “Charles Gillibrand,” he said.

            “What?”

            “My name. Charles Gillibrand.”

             “Oh,” said Adela.

             “What’s yours?”

             “Sorry. Adela Gilman.”

             “A pleasure to meet you.”

         “And you summer here in the Hamptons?”

         “In the summers, yes, and then I split the rest of my time in Silicon Valley and the city and Miami.”

         “Oh,” said Adela suddenly. “You’re Charles Gillibrand--you own Apple now. I read about your acquisition in the paper a few months ago.”

         “Yes, one and the same. I’ll be selling it soon,” the man said.

         “Is that public information?”

         “Yes, just broke a few hours ago.”

         “Why are you selling it?” she asked, her eyes straight ahead.

         The man looked out over the waves.

         “When I was growing up, I spent my childhood with my brothers, sailing, fishing, building forts. Learning as much as I could. Challenging myself. I chafed