Dreaming in Color by Cameron Dane (mobi reader .TXT) 📗

a metal buckle held the bag closed. His heart racing and his fingers unsteady, Colin opened the bag and withdrew the contents, laying them out side by side on the floor. Three leather-bound volumes and one tiny painting, done on canvas but unframed, set the tingling in his blood to a full-on roar. The painting was a simple rendition of this house with its fancy blue tile roof and gleaming red door.

Breathing, closing his eyes for a moment to steady himself, only when he was ready did Colin open his eyes and turn back the cover of the first book.

I knew it. Flipping through the first few pages, Colin searched for a name to identify the owner of the diaries, and it didn't take long. The third entry started… “I met a man tonight. His name is Stewart.”

“Beatrice.” Colin spoke the name with reverence and care.

His legs buzzing like crazy, Colin crawled to the wall and leaned back against it. He rubbed the wood, and heat settled into his palm. “You somehow made him leave that door open earlier, didn't you? This is what you wanted me to find, isn't it?”

Sitting down on the floor next to the lantern, right under the window, Colin flipped back to the first page and started to read.

* * * * *

A few hours later, Marek jogged up to the house from the beach, no Colin at his side. For a couple of minutes after stepping outside to tell Colin it was time to start getting ready to leave, Marek had raced up and down the beach shouting the man's name, panicking when he couldn't find Colin anywhere. Marek forced himself to stop and think, realizing that no towel, book, or sunscreen lay anywhere in the sand or on the dock, so it was very unlikely Colin had gone for a swim and met with trouble.

Still, Marek tore up the porch steps and rushed into his home, his heart thudding painfully as he checked all through the downstairs to no avail, calling Colin's name. Marek took the grand staircase three steps at a time. When he hit the second floor, Colin's voice reached him with an “I'm in the attic. Come up here.”

“Be right there.” Thank you, God. Instead of rushing to Colin's side, Marek took hold of the stair railing and rested his weight into it, waiting for his breathing to return to a steadier pattern before he faced Colin. Marek wanted to blame his breathlessness on his run up and down the beach, but he knew the truth. For a second, when I couldn't find him, he scared the shit out of me. I thought I lost him. The truth rocked a shiver through Marek where he stood. This man was already so important to him he couldn't imagine a life without him.

But it's not real because he doesn't know the whole truth.

Marek scrubbed his face as the spontaneous, stupid choice from his youth reared its ugly head again, piling another layer of guilt on what he already carried in his heart every day. Now, every minute that passed with Colin in this house, Marek added an extra deception through omission of his sins.

“Marek? Are you coming?” The muffle of Colin's voice reached him again. “I found something pretty spectacular.”

Those words got Marek up and moving. “What?”

He strode into the unused room and up the stairs, careful of his step in the shadows. There shouldn't be anything in the attic. Marek had only been up there briefly once, but it had been completely empty.

He followed the ray of light as he emerged into the attic, and found Colin sitting on the floor under the window, a book in his hand. “What is that?”

“You won't believe it.” Colin crossed his legs and leaned forward, and the light caught the excitement in his eyes. “It's Beatrice's diary.”

“No shit.” Marek dropped to his knees and fingered the spine of the tome he held. “Seriously?”

“I know. Right?” Colin leaned back against the wall and cocked his head to the side. “Although she is a young woman, and then eventually a married woman, so maybe I should call them her journals. It seems more adult and serious. There are three. I'm still on the first one because the writing is so tiny, and it has faded, and the scratch of the cursive handwriting is hard to make out in some pieces.” He turned the book around, holding it open so Marek could see the tight lines of text on the yellowed pages.

Unable to help it, Marek lifted his hand and touched the flowing script, unduly fascinated by Colin's discovery. “Where did you find them?”

“They were in this bag”—Colin held up a tooled brown leather satchel—“tucked in the corner of that beam.” He indicated up and to his right. “There was a small painting in the bag as well.” Down went the bag, and up came a tiny portrait of the house.

Marek stared up to where Colin had pointed, his mind in a whirl. “What in the hell do you suppose they were doing up there?”

“I don't know,” Colin answered. “I would tend to doubt Beatrice put them there herself, as I couldn't even reach it without jumping to knock it down. Of course, I suppose she might have had furniture up here and climbed up and down to retrieve the bag when she wanted it. But it was just her for such a long time so why hide them?” Sliding his finger into the book as a mark, Colin tucked the small journal to his chest. “I think it more likely, after she died, the realtor came in to clear out the house, and someone probably set it up there out of the way as they were cleaning and removing whatever was up here and then just forgot about it.”

Marek arched a brow. “You could always go back and chat it up with the realtors again, see if they know what was here when Beatrice passed, and