Finding Eden(64)

Calder stared straight ahead for a minute, clenching and unclenching his fists, and then he looked down at me and pulled me in to his chest. We stood there for a few minutes, simply breathing together, tears coursing down my cheeks.

"It's okay," Calder said soothingly, running his hand over my hair. "Those paintings were my longing for you, Eden. I have the real you now. I don't need them."

I shook my head against him. "But it was your work. Your beautiful, beautiful work."

He was quiet for a minute. "I can make more. And now I have you right in front of me so every detail will be right and perfect." His words were calming, but the lack of emotion in his voice scared me.

I turned my face into his T-shirt and cried a little more as he held me. "I'm sorry. I should be holding you right now."

Calder breathed out, smiling a small, sad smile down at me as I gazed up at him. "You are."

I sniffled out a small, sad laugh when I realized that indeed I was–and tightly.

We walked to his bedroom and I looked around unbelievingly at more graffiti and the clothes that were cut and flung all over the room. And in the middle of it all, the sheets had been stripped off our Bed of Healing and the mattress was slashed everywhere. I felt as if it was me that had been slashed right down the middle. I felt violated and sick. Calder's hand gripped mine until it was almost painful. His whole body was tense as we turned and walked out of the room and back to where the two officers were waiting. "There's nothing here to pack," Calder said as we walked past them.

"We'll write up a report when we get back to Mrs. Connor's house," one of them said behind us.

The police created a barrier from reporters as we got back in the cruiser parked out front. Calder stared out the window as we drove. "That was the first place that was ever my own," he said softly. "I wanted to keep you safe there."

My heart squeezed painfully. I pictured the small, two-room cabin he'd grown up in . . . and then the blanket on the floor in the laundry room where Hector made him sleep. He had never had a place of his own, a place to take pride in, a place to enjoy privacy. And he had wanted to make it ours.

I didn't have any words. I simply moved over on the seat and held him.



**********



The weeks dragged by. Calder didn't talk a lot about what had been done to his apartment. But I could tell it had affected him deeply—not just the destruction of his things, his space, but the fact that there were people that hated us for being any part at all of Acadia. Both of us were even more leery of the media and of making any attempt to go out of the house. When he wasn't with me, Calder spent most of his time sitting out by the pool. I couldn't help seeing the similarities of when I had looked out my window at the main lodge and saw the shadow of a boy sitting out on a small front porch. The house was bigger this time, but just like then, he was looking for his own space—and not finding it.

As the days passed, I could tell Calder was getting more and more antsy to get out of my mom's house, and what had felt like a refuge for a little while, was now beginning to feel like a prison. We did try to go out one day when the yard was empty and we thought we could get out unseen, but as soon as we stepped outside, car doors opened and closed down the street and reporters ran toward us shouting questions. I felt Calder tense beside me and I dragged him back inside.

Xander visited whenever he wasn't working, and my mom and Molly fluttered around us trying to make sure we were doing okay, and that we were entertained.

There was almost a competition between my mom and Calder for my time, though, especially on my mom's end. I did my best to split myself between them. But I was only one person. And we were all trapped together in one house.

The media was making Xander's life inconvenient, but they weren't hounding him to the degree they were hounding us. The triple news story of my kidnapping and return, Calder and I having been at Acadia the day of the flood, and our love story turned the media into vultures.

The police still came and went, stopping by to clarify something, or to give us information they thought we'd appreciate having, such as the fact that all of Clive's assets had been frozen in lieu of the money laundering charges. He wouldn't be able to make bond—he'd be in jail until his trial. Somehow I doubted he had any friends who were willing to help him out.

It was obvious my mom had a special affinity for Detective Lowe, the young, handsome detective I felt most comfortable talking to as well. One day after he'd been by with some questions, my mom came into the kitchen where I was making popcorn for a movie Calder and I planned on watching.

"Eden," my mom said, grabbing a bowl from the cabinet next to her and handing it to me. "Bobby is so handsome, isn't he?"