Girl Wife Prisoner Page 2

  I had no time to change. There was a knock on my bedroom door. Mr. Blackwell was here.

  My heart began to thud like a drum inside my chest. I ran out of my closet into my bedroom, closing the door behind me. The knock sounded again.

  “Just a minute,” I called.

  I stared around my bedroom furnished with a chaise, several armchairs, a wide, cushioned window seat under one of the casement windows, and a king-sized bed. Where should I greet him? Where would I make the best impression?

  I made a bold decision and aimed for the bed. I lay on it along my side, propped up on one elbow. My kimono fell open, showing too much of my pale chest, but I didn’t move to close it. My husband would see all of me soon. No need to be shy.

  I forced myself to take a long, deep, calming breath. You can do this, Noriko.

  I cleared my throat before I called out, “Come in.”

  I licked my lips, which had gone dry. Did I remember to brush my teeth? The door handle turned. Too late now. I pouted my lips.

  The door pushed open. “Dear?”

  A gray-haired head poked in. It wasn’t Mr. Blackwell. It was Loretta, the housekeeper.

  I sat up, snatching my kimono shut at my chest, my cheeks flaming.

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “I’m terribly sorry to intrude.”

  I shuffled off the bed and stood. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

  I knew she didn’t have anything good to say next when her pale, crinkling face pulled into a kind, apologetic look. “I just received a message from Master Blackwell.”

  “Oh?”

  “He has been called away on urgent business. He has to fly to London. I’m afraid he won’t be home tonight.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is there anything I can do? Anything at all.”

  “No. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

  “Okay. There’s an intercom by your bed so you can call me if you think of anything.”

  “Thank you, Loretta, really.” I was grateful for her kindness. She was the only one who had been kind to me here yet.

  The door closed behind her. I was left to spend my wedding night alone.

  That night I slept fitfully. Partly because I was in a strange bed in a strange room, partly because the tree outside my window had a small branch that tapped against it when the wind blew. Mostly because I spent the night in a battle, fighting off the doubts that rose inside me.

  Did I do the right thing?

  The next morning after eating breakfast, I was left to my own devices. I didn’t really care much about seeing the rest of the mansion. But the one room I did want to see was my new husband’s. You can tell a lot about a person from their bedroom and I was desperately curious. Who was the man I agreed to spend my life with?

  I opened my door and peered out into the hallway, listening for footsteps. There was no one that I could see nor could I hear coming. I didn’t know why I felt like I had to sneak around. This was my house now.

  I looked to where Sasha had indicated Mr. Blackwell’s room was. There was a dark blue door almost at the end of the hallway on the same side as my room. That must be it.

  I slipped into the hallway, closing the door behind me, and walked as quietly as I could to the door. I tested the handle. Finding it unlocked, I slipped inside.

  It appeared that Mr. Blackwell’s “bedroom” was also an apartment. I passed through his formal living area − dark green and mahogany décor with thick wood furniture and bucket armchairs − then his informal living area − comfortable-looking black couches and a huge flat-screen television that took up an entire wall − to stand at the door to his bedroom, a navy door detailed with curling vines and thorns.

  I turned the gold handle. To my surprise, it was unlocked. Slowly I pushed the door open.

  Mr. Blackwell’s bedroom was palatial and deeply masculine, dominated by dark wood and black, each piece of furniture thick and boldly designed. In one corner was a glass and wood cabinet that stored several brandy glasses and a decanter of golden liquid. There was a hint of something spicy in the air.

  There were three doors that led off his bedroom. One must be his ensuite but…what were the other two? My bare feet sank into the rich blue carpet as I crossed the room.

  I tried the first door. It was his bathroom. The spicy scent I detected earlier must have been an aftershave; I could smell it more strongly in here. There was a shower that could easily fit four people, and a large in-built spa bath encased in marble.

  Behind the second door I discovered a library, an enviable room that smelled of paper and leather with floor to ceiling books and a huge green chair near the window. Unlike the books in my room, these spines were creased. I ran my fingers across the titles as I peered at his library collection, eager to get a glimpse of the man who was my husband.

  His fiction collection was small; only a few works of Poe, Hemingway, and Steinbeck. It seemed he read mostly non-fiction: business books, of course, marketing, finance, economics. He also had a number of books on leadership. I knew nothing about business. But as a good wife I wasn’t expected to interfere in those matters.

  He also had a sizable collection on psychology and a small section on Japan, including its history. Now these things I could talk about. I couldn’t help a small smile as I imagined the lively conversations we might have during our evenings together. Perhaps we could be happy together.

  The third door wouldn’t open even as I shook and rattled the handle. It was definitely locked. I stared at the simple door of polished wood, looking so different from all the rest of the decorated doors. What was in there? Why was it locked?

  I spun to face the room. His king-sized bed, covered in a dark gray spread, beckoned to me. I walked right up to it and stared at the expanse. This was where my husband slept. I fingered the soft cotton. Did I dare?

  He was my husband. I would be well acquainted with this bed soon enough.

  I crawled into the middle of the mattress and lay down on the cool sheets staring up at the ceiling. I considered, without ever having seen his face, not even a picture, what it would be like to have him above me.

  I had a sudden thought. I sat up and stared across to his bedside table. Then to the mantle above his fireplace. Then to the other flat surfaces of this room. That’s odd. Where were his photos? In fact, I didn’t remember seeing a single photo frame in any of the rooms so far.

  All the surfaces of my family home were covered in photos of us all; my parents, their wedding, at the birth of all us children, and us five girls, in diapers, in school uniforms, dressed in costumes for school plays...

  Where were the photos of him and his family? His parents?

  I slipped off the bed and brushed it down to hide that I had been there.

  Mr. Blackwell didn’t have a window box so I could walk right up to the glass. The view, unlike mine, wasn’t obstructed by any trees. It looked straight out onto the manicured garden that stretched out like a green cityscape into the distance before turning into thick, dark woodland.

  There was a young man walking across the grass towards the mansion. I couldn’t see the details of his face from here, but I could see he was shirtless. He carried a huge sack of something on one shoulder. It looked large enough to crush him, but he was carrying it like it only weighed a few pounds. He was strong. Very strong.

  As he neared I started making out the details of his body; rounded shoulders and wide chest, his golden skin shiny from exertion. I couldn’t help but follow him with my eyes. His stride was aggressive, yet so fluid and so…assured. He stopped by a flowerbed and swung the sack off his shoulder so that it landed on the grass beside him. He stood with his back to me and I noted the wide V-shape of his torso, his shapely calves, and his back muscles so sculpted and clearly defined.

  In one smooth movement he slashed open the top of the bag, returned the cutting implement to his pocket, and hoisted the bag up again. He moved around the bed, shaking and pouring dirt from the opening, the muscles of his bac
k and his chest and arms dancing and flexing in the morning light. I didn’t know how, but he managed to avoid directing a landslide onto any of the fragile flowers at his feet, pouring the dirt only in the spaces around them instead. What a beautiful display of strength and delicacy. What care and complete control he had. I was utterly mesmerized.

  An unfamiliar blush started to spread inside me. The more I watched him, my eyes glued to his form, the hotter my body grew until a knotted burning sat at my core.

  I want him, I realized. I had never wanted anyone before.

  I was becoming a woman. A woman…who wanted a man.

  Would I feel this way about Mr. Blackwell? Would he make my insides heat like this? Would he make me…curious?

  My hands clutched at the hem of my dress pulling the front of it up, up up, my fingertips raking up my thighs as I moved them closer, closer to this beautiful ache. My fingers found the lace edge of my underwear. My breath fogged up the window as I leaned forward, craving to see more of this beautiful man.

  My forehead hit the cold glass. It was exactly what I needed; a slap on the head to wake myself up. I was standing in the bedroom of my new husband about to touch myself as I watched another man.

  Those were not the actions of a good wife.

  3

  I shouldn’t go out to the gardens. I shouldn’t go looking for trouble.

  Why shouldn’t I go out to the gardens? They’re my gardens now. It was reasonable that I would want to see them, right?

  You don’t care about the gardens. You just want to see him. Close up.

  I might not even come across him in the gardens, they’re so big.

  Maybe he’d be shirtless again.

  Or maybe his face will be horrid like one of the gargoyles around the building. It would seem only fair if God should grant a man a body like that, he should balance it out with a wretched face. Indeed. I should look at his monstrosity close up. It was what I needed to stop thinking about what his muscles might feel like moving under my hands.

  This debate raged on inside my head as I made my way down the gray stone stairs that led from the back terrace down to the gardens. I was wearing a new long red Alexander McQueen dress, gathered at my waist to give me a shape, and that billowed as I walked. I felt pretty in it, yet I couldn’t help but feel guilty for loving it so much.

  A message had come to me earlier from Mr. Blackwell. He wouldn’t be home today either. With the message came a “small” token of his sincere apology: a personal shopper called Fifi by her friends − she insisted I call her Fifi − from a store named Saks Fifth Avenue and a budget with instructions not to stop buying until I had reached it. As my new friend helped me pick out a new wardrobe, I had to force myself not to hyperventilate like a schoolgirl at all the price tags of the clothes that she made me try on.

  In the end, the amount my new wardrobe had cost could have fed all the people in my old neighborhood for a month. I pushed this thought away. It wasn’t my neighborhood anymore. They weren’t my people. I was Mrs. Blackwell of California, United States of America. I would just have to get used to wasting obscene amounts of money on designer clothes and shoes.

  At the edge of the garden I already felt lost. This property was huge, rolling out and losing itself in the distance. I wasn’t even sure where to start, so I just picked a direction and began to wander. I figured if I got completely lost they’d send out a search party for me. I could see the headlines now: “Immigrant Bride Lost, Found Wandering Gardens of Her Palatial Home”.

  The gardens seemed endless as I meandered my way through them. Paved paths curved this way and that, turning corners to reveal green alcoves with benches or bushes shaped like animals chasing each other across lush carpets of grass. I saw a great many flowers and trees. But I couldn’t see the gardener from yesterday.

  I was about to call off my search when the trickling sound of water falling caught my ear. I walked around a bend in the bushes and found myself at the edge of a row of cherry blossoms in bloom, carpeting the grass with soft pink petals like snow, paper lanterns hanging like bells from their branches. I smelled the familiar sweet perfume and felt a pang in my heart.

  I was drawn in further by the path lined with stone lanterns. It wound through a series of raked rock gardens of dark moss and pale pebbles, accented with water trickling through open bamboo pipes, then through carpets of pink Shibazakura flowers and clusters of tulips, then turning into a red wooden bridge. I stopped in the middle of it and looked out over the large pond, several Fuji trees with their pastel purple and white flowers hanging over the water like bunches of grapes. Delight skipped through me as I spotted several bright orange carp chasing each other between the lily pads. It was only when I saw a figure reflected in the surface of the water did I realize I wasn’t alone.

  I looked up. It was the young man from yesterday, standing on the other side of the pond. I recognized his wide muscular figure. He had seen me too. He was looking at me. In fact, he was staring.

  My heartrate fluttered up into the sky as he began to walk around the pond’s edge towards the bridge, his eyes never leaving mine. He was coming here. He was coming to me.

  I couldn’t move. I could hardly breathe as he neared. When his boots clattered onto the wooden bridge my body jolted, every cell of my body suddenly hypersensitive. He stopped before me.

  I was horribly, horribly wrong. He looked nothing like a gargoyle.

  His jaw was chiseled and dusted with dark stubble. He had thick messy dark hair, a leaf caught in it that I was strangely desperate to pick out. His glossy chocolate eyes – deep-set and rimmed with enviable thick, midnight lashes – were wide. He seemed stunned to see me. From his smooth caramel forehead, a crop of hair falling over it, to his strong nose down to his thick Cupid’s bow lips, his face had been sculpted by an artist, perfectly proportioned and put together.

  I could see the thickness of his body as his off-white sleeveless shirt clung to him from sweat. His arms were defined and corded like the docking rope or a large ship. The fire he awoke yesterday re-lit into a larger, hotter flame inside me causing all my nerve endings to tingle.

  I was in so much trouble.

  Those beautiful lips moved and it took me a second to realize he had just said something.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  He raised a thick, dark eyebrow, his voice coming out rich and deep. “I said, can I help you?”

  Yes, marry me. “I, um…hi.” Well done. Real smooth, Noriko. Now, what came next after hi?

  “I’m staring,” he said without a hint of embarrassment.

  He was staring? I was staring.

  “Forgive me,” he continued, “but you look like a princess standing in my garden.”

  Of course his first lines to me came out perfectly.

  “Your garden?” I asked.

  The corner of his lip tipped up. “Well, it’s not mine. It’s Mr. Blackwell’s, of course. But it was my creation.”

  “You…” I stared around me, “you did all this?”

  He nodded. “I took inspiration from the Japanese gardens of the earliest twentieth century. We’re standing on the Bridge of Life and…” he trailed off. “You probably don’t want to hear all this.”

  “No, please. Go on.” I could listen to your voice for hours.

  “Well,” his face and his hands became animated as he spoke and a light shone from his eyes. If it was at all possible, he became all the more stunning. “I wanted to show the journey of the soul through the human experience. See,” he stepped up to my side and pointed out the various sections of the garden. “We start there at birth, then childhood…”

  His enthusiasm was infectious. I found myself smiling and nodding along with him as he spoke about his garden, his energy finding its way in and bubbling around inside me. I kept glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, noting the most perfect freckle that sat above his mouth that danced as he spoke. I wanted to press my lips to it.

  I could smell hi
s aftershave, something clean and masculine, woody, mixed with a hint of sweat and grass. It was intoxicating. My head felt lighter and lighter as I breathed him in.

  “Then in adulthood we move into marriage…” He turned his head to look at me, and our eyes locked. We were so close we were almost breathing the same air. He swallowed before averting his gaze. “Um, then children, retirement and death but those are further along and we can’t see them from here.”

  “Right. So we’re standing between childhood and adulthood?”

  “Exactly.” He grinned, revealing a set of white teeth, all perfect, except for a slightly crooked upper tooth. Far from detracting from his beauty, this tiny “flaw” just made him seem more…real. I couldn’t help but grin back. “Do you come from Japan?” he asked.

  “I do,” I said. I was impressed. He guessed my origins correctly. Once I heard a foreigner back home say to his friend, not thinking I could understand English, gosh, all these Asians look the same, don’t they?

  His face brightened. “Did you ever live there?”

  I nodded. “Only until recently.”

  “Oh God. Tell me everything about it. I mean, please, would you? If I’m not keeping you from anything. Am I keeping you from something?”

  I laughed. “No. I don’t have anything to do today.”

  “Great. So…will you tell me about your home?”

  My home… I repressed a longing for the place I was born and raised. “I came from the island of Hokkaido. It’s one of the larger islands north of Japan.”

  “I know of Hokkaido.”

  “I lived in a small fishing town called Shibetsu on the eastern coast.”

  “Is Japan as beautiful as it looks like in photos?”

  “The area around my town is. The only city I’ve ever been to is Tokyo and it was too much for me. In my town it’s a lot cooler than it is here. We have Mount Unabetsu in the background watching over us, always there, even as the seasons go by, even as people grow up, move away…he’s always there. In spring the cherry blossoms are everywhere, the smell of them competing with the salty sea air. It never gets too warm, even in summer. In autumn all the leaves turn and the country looks like it’s on fire; reds and oranges and yellows, like Mother Nature’s one last outburst of passion before winter sends it to sleep…” I couldn’t repress my smile. “But winter was always my favorite season. Father would come home from work, Mother would be cooking and we would all be packed into our dining area. Our small house, full and cozy. Everything outside would be white, blinding new white, everything slated clean. Like a fresh start.”