Page 3 of I see you Beauty

Iam trapped in a spiral of memories from yesterday afternoon. Images of the refreshing pool water flash through my mind. I felt so free and… good, surrounded by weightlessness. Shameful thoughts, I know. But that’s how I feel.

The mysterious Mr. King won’t leave my thoughts, either. I can’t get his deep voice and its timbre out of my head. Then there’s how he spoke to me—no, flirted with me. It was almost cheeky and yet somehow charming.

As I prepare dinner for Thomas and our daughter, my thoughts briefly wander to Mr. King’s pronounced muscles and how they presented themselves to me in all their perfection. Rarely have I seen such a desirable specimen of a man. I know how wrong it is, as a married woman, to think of another man, yet I can’t stop myself. I allow the memory to sink in, even as I chop vegetables and stir the pot, trying to focus on the task. The guilt tugs at me, but the image of him lingers, unwelcome yet persistent, as I try to push it aside and concentrate on my family.

I promised June I would stand by her during today’s conversation with her father, and I will. So I cooked his favorite meal: pot roast with beans and bacon served with a red wine sauce. And an apple pie for dessert.

I spend hours in the kitchen, preparing everything from scratch. Thomas insists on nothing less than homemade meals; he works hard for our perfect life and expects a lovingly prepared dinner each evening.

I always try to please my husband so he doesn’t get upset. His job at his law firm often puts him under a lot of stress, so I try to stay on his good side by responding to his needs and understanding that he may have a short fuse. It’s my job to take good care of and forgive him for certain things because I know he doesn’t mean it. Sometimes, he’s just overworked and worn out.

A burning smell and rising smoke pull me out of my thoughts. Crap!

I quickly rush to the oven, grab my oven mitts as I pass, and open the door. Hot air and dark smoke hit me, making me cough as I take out the roast. Today, of all days, dinner is burned.

Angry with myself, I shake my head and look at the damage. But I don’t have time to do anything about it because I hear the front door open and the familiar voices of my husband and daughter drift into the kitchen.

Hastily, I open the window to let the smoke and burned stench out. Maybe my misstep won’t be as noticeable. Unfortunately, I can’t think of a quick way to conceal the damage to the roast.

“Cora? What have you done?” Thomas asks as he enters the kitchen with our daughter. His eyebrows are drawn together questioningly; a mistake like this is completely out of character for me.

I tilt my head slightly in apology and turn my ring nervously back and forth.

“You burned the food?” he questions reproachfully, making his displeasure clear.

I can understand him, as I’ve completely messed up my primary responsibility.

“Call the news. Mom burned Dad’s sacred pot roast,” June jokes, lightening the mood a little as Thomas’s brow gradually lowers again. His stern eyes leave me as he looks at our daughter and gives her a small smile.

Even though June is the spitting image of me with her cat-green eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips, she has inherited Thomas’s blonde hair. She has inherited the same stubbornness and unyielding nature from her father, yet her heart is big and compassionate. June is a good daughter and a wonderful young woman I’m incredibly proud of.

“I guess we’ll have pizza then. Come on, Pumpkin. While your mom cleans up here, we’ll take care of dinner,” he says to her, giving me a warning look at the same time.

I feel bad because I promised June my support and wanted to ensure Thomas had a relaxing evening tonight to get him in the right mood so that June and I could explain that her midterm didn’t go as well as we’d hoped. Shit!

As the front door slams shut behind them, I snap out of my stupor and dispose of all the dinner I had prepared. It hurts my soul to throw away so much good food, as only the roast was affected by my mistake. But Thomas was very clear about ordering pizza. I can’t afford to make another mistake by disobeying. If everything runs smoothly from now on, maybe I can save the evening after all.

They’re still not back once I’ve tidied the kitchen and polished all surfaces. I decided to take out the trash in the meantime so that the smell of burning food is completely gone by the time they return.

Armed with the trash, I step out of the red front door, leave it ajar, and stride across the porch. Dusk has long since fallen, and the weak lamp bathes the porch’s dark wood and the light-colored stones of the path in front of me in a dim light.

Arriving at the black trashcan, I throw the whole bag into it. Sighing softly, I walk back to our house. Suddenly, the sound of a guitar stops me in my tracks. I look around to locate the source of the music. It appears to be coming from the neighbor’s house, but I can’t see anyone there.

Guided by the beautiful melody and curiosity, my feet carry me across the small patch of grass separating our properties.

Mr. King’s porch is entirely dark. Not a single lamp provides any light. Only when I fully step onto his property do I see him sitting on the beam of the porch railing, one foot dangling down, the other propped on the wood, and his guitar resting on his thigh.

Stepping closer, I notice he is again only wearing shorts. Despite the advancing evening, it’s still hot as we’re in the middle of a heatwave.

I briefly consider simply turning around again. After all, he hasn’t noticed me yet, or at least hasn’t looked up. But when he gently runs his fingers over his guitar strings, the thought of leaving completely escapes me. I stand rooted to the spot just a few steps before his porch and listen to his music.

“Good evening, Mrs. Shepherd,” the young man greets me in his smoky voice as he continues to play.

His gaze slides over to me, and that daring, beautiful smile returns to his lips. I don’t know whether to return the smile or to leave, cursing myself for acting stupid. My feelings toward him are entirely contradictory. On one hand, I’m curious and want to learn more about him. But then I remember that I am not allowed to be interested. I’m not allowed to question anything about him and his personality because I’m a happily married woman. I can’t do that.

“Sorry,” I reply meekly and am about to turn away when he plays a more intense and louder melody, completely captivating me again because Ezra King is an exceptional musician.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he replies confidently, which once again confirms that he’s dangerous, and yet I can’t escape the sight of him and his extraordinary guitar music.

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