Red Silk Pt. 01-02

Hi there!

This is an experimental short story based on ‘Beauty and the Beast’, with a twist. It’s my first contemporary story, set mostly in the Scottish Highlands and infused with Scottish/Celtic lore. I hope you’ll enjoy it!

I’m trying my hand at writing in first person/present time and flashbacks, so please let me know how I’m doing with your votes and comments.

For those of you who are readers of my steamy historical ‘Royal Sentence’, I’m working on the next chapter. The reason it’s taking so long -aside for my usual procrastinating tendencies- is that shortly after posting the last chapter a suspicious nodule was discovered on my breast, which was then diagnosed as a fairly rare and aggressive form of cancer. I have since had four surgeries and more coming -I refused radiations, chemo and two other awful drugs- and anaesthesia has a tendency to mess with my brain. My survival chances are 50% at 2 years and 30% at 5 years so I can’t guarantee I’ll manage to finish all my current books but I’ll do what I can. Updates might just be quite irregular. Sorry about that.

That’s it for the pity party.

Good reading!

Part 1

Everything looks better in the sun. Even this room seemed lovely earlier, when I prepared it. Sun rays fell from high and narrow widows to play on bright tapestries and shiny wood paneling. Candles everywhere. A four poster bed. A huge stone fireplace. A princess room in fairy tales. Sooo romantic.

Now, after nightfall, the setting has turned to sinister.

It’s hot in here. The wood stove squatting in the monumental chimney is glowing, and it does a darn good job of heating the space. Which is quite fortunate because I’m right in the center of it, naked, in red silk sheets.

Silk, real, one-hundred-per-cent cocoon issued natural silk, is cool on the skin, as I discovered a few moments ago. I’m wrapped in it like a caterpillar, and shaking like I’m about to emerge a butterfly. I’m a bloody sacrifice, spread on a luxurious wool and linen mattress, made-to-order, because nothing else would fit this monstrosity of a bed. The thing has an antique, emperor-size frame of oak solid enough to have lasted several centuries. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be as old as the walls of the Scottish castle whose tower room it’s furnishing. Thank God, or moths, the drapes are missing. Were they red, I’d fear I am about to become Dracula’s fiancée.

I did not choose any of this, I followed instructions. Followed them to the letter, up to the eye drops I just used, which make my vision blurry, unable to distinguish more than shapes and colors. The soft light of the candles is blinding me, and I jump at every draft or creaking of the floor. There might still be time to run, and I wish I could. I’m rambling, because I’m terrified. I have no idea who might come through the door. It’s a man, but I never met him and his name is a mystery.

What if he is a brute? A sadist? A murderer? No, not a murderer. He needs me alive and healthy.

Only three people know I’m here. Only two know where here exactly is. I am not one of them. Yet I agreed to come here, to do this. Have sex with him.

I’m aware it sounds crazy. I’m not proud of this, I’m not happy with it. I have no choice.

Two months ago, I made a pact with the Devil. And right now, I can only hope it wasn’t meant literally.

“Moira, please check your phone! It’s been ringing off the hook for ten minutes. It’s driving me nuts!”

“Ok, ok, I’ll do it! No need to shout!”

I dropped the dirty plates on the counter and ran to the back office to fish the offending object out of my handbag. I frowned at the screen. I couldn’t place the displayed number. “Hello? Moira MacFinn speaking...”

“Ms MacFinn, I’m Dr. Gordon, physician at Derward General Hospital. We have admitted a gentleman who I believe is your father. Would it be possible for you to come over and fill some paperwork?”

My legs turned to jelly and I leaned onto the desk. “My father? What happened? Is he okay?”

“His life is not in danger, but I don’t want to discuss this over the phone. He is unconscious at the moment. When can you be here?”

Derward General was just out of town, and traffic in our small piece of Texas wasn’t an issue; leaving work without warning was. I couldn’t lose this job. “In about half an hour, I need to get someone to cover my shift. Will that do?”

“Of course. Please ask for me at reception, there are a few things I’d like to discuss with you before you see him.”

He hanged up abruptly. I stood for a minute staring at my phone, before snapping out of it and calling my friend Susie. I had a flash of luck in my otherwise rotten day, as she answered on the second ring and immediately agreed to fill in for me.

Dr Gordon was a psychiatrist. That’s what the nice girl at reception said. She directed me to the mental health aisle, where I learned my dad had attempted suicide. As if it wasn’t bad enough, they had performed a general check-up and found that his heart was in bad shape. Any strong emotion or longstanding worry could kill him.

I was devastated. I hadn’t seen it coming. Trying to kill himself. Why would he do that? I mean, he had debts, a lot of them, but he was a fighter, a rock. He would never give up. Not my dad.

After my mother bailed out, it had just been the two of us, running our horse breeding and boarding ranch. My father was good with his animals, and his business was flourishing until the economy crashed. He had to let his employees go, sell most of his prized breeders for nothing, and remortgage the house in order to survive.

By then I was finishing high school and looking out for universities. I was good enough to get in, not land a scholarship. He said it didn’t matter, that he had planned ahead and put money aside. That he could pay for college and I should go and be happy and don’t you worry about a thing.

Turned out he lied. When I finished my degree, he admitted he had taken a loan from some anonymous philanthropist set to helping the Scottish diaspora, as the banks wouldn’t lend him. I doubted it at first, until he showed me the papers. They seemed legit and the rate was reasonable. I was angry and hurt, but I understood.

I moved back home to save money, and took a job as a waitress to help him pay back. No like there were many openings for English Literature graduates in Derward, Texas. On my free time, I also gave a hand on the ranch, which saved us the cost of an extra farmhand.

Money was tight, but we were managing. He told me were doing fine. Weren’t we?

My father was still out, they were keeping him sedated for a few days so that his body could recover. He had been working himself into the ground, they said. As if I didn’t know that. I had begged him to rest more, and he never listened. He thought I worked too hard, so he tried to have everything done during my shifts. Crazy, stubborn man.

I ranted internally as I held his hand. He looked older, more fragile, in his hospital bed. Not the rock solid, nothing-can-break me man I grew up with. He couldn’t die, I needed him. I wouldn’t let him. He would get better, and when he woke up, I would get answers. Hopefully tomorrow.

A nurse came and asked me to leave. Visitation time was over. I didn’t give her any trouble. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t stay by his side anyway. The problem with farming is that animals don’t care if you are tired or ill, or whatever. They need tending to. He would never forgive me for neglecting his beloved horses.

So I kissed his forehead and drove myself home.

The door wasn’t locked and the sitting room was a mess. The furniture had been pushed around in a hurry, and a few nick-knacks my father kept as a shrine to my absentee mother lay in pieces on the floor. Poetic justice.

There was an awful stench, and I found its source in a puddle of vomit on the carpet. Yuck.

As I went to grab a mop, I collided with Bo, our old farmhand. He steadied me and pulled me into a hug.

“I’m so sorry, girl, I should have found him earlier. I came to tell him Betsy was foaling, and there he was, collapsed on the sofa, this damn empty pill box beside him. He was barely breathing. Wouldn’t wake up when I shook him. The medics said he’s only alive because he puked most of it. I had no idea things were so bad, that he would do something like that. Not him. I’m sorry...”

That’s when it hit me. The reality of it, a full-on punch in the gut. I nearly lost my dad. It had been THIS close. If Betsy hadn’t gone into labor, if Bo hadn’t needed help, dad would be dead and I would be planning his funeral right now. Hell, I could be finding his corpse right now.

My throat tightened. I gripped Bo’s shoulders, buried my forehead in the familiar horse and sweat scented flannel, and bawled my heart out.

“It’s all right, Moira. There girl, there girl...”

It took a while for sobs to turn into sniffles, and then I was wiping my eyes and he was veering me towards the sofa.

“Here, sit,” he said, popping into the kitchen to fetch a box of tissues and a bourbon.

I tried to refuse the glass but he insisted. “Just this once, you need it. Trust me.”

I downed it and coughed, my throat burning. I grimaced. “You drink that stuff? You men are nuts!”

He smiled, laugh wrinkles deepening, and I made a face. Classic Bo. I blew my nose. “How’s Betsy doing?”

“She’s well. Not her first rodeo. Told her she wouldn’t get the star treatment this time and we made it on our own, just the two of us. I am the new dad of a healthy colt.”

He grinned and I couldn’t help but answer in kind. Bo never had children. His wife had been babysitting me since my toddler years, and they were the uncle and aunt I didn’t have.

“Are you good enough to stay alone a couple of hours? I have to go back and check on the foal. I’ll stay later to finish the work, so if you need anything, call.”

“Wait, I’ll help you...”

“No girl, you take a break. You have enough on your plate. Just try to relax and go to bed early. I have this.”

I sighed and leaned back. I knew better than to try to change his mind. It was Bo’s way of holding my hand. I’d still go and meet the little one later. After this Hell of a day, a clumsy baby horse might be just what the doctor ordered.

Another look at the sorry state of the room was my clue to get going. Dad was an oddity: a meticulous man. He’d freak out returning from hospital and finding a mess. I started with the smelly stain and moved on to vacuuming.

That when I noticed it, a sheet of expensive paper topped with a law firm logo, Glennard & Smythe, Inverness.

I picked it with trembling hands and set it on the coffee table, beside the torn envelope that told me it had arrived with today’s mail. The pristine pile of bills underneath meant it was probably what caused my dad to flip. I stared at it as if it could bite me, wondering if reading it was a wise move. Did I really WANT to know how deep under we were?

I steeled myself. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe I could fix it. Lawyers were people, right?

After deciphering the legal jargon, I wasn’t so sure. We had missed two payments in a row and they were calling the loan. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. We didn’t have that kind of money. Even selling everything we had, we would barely raise it. And that couldn’t be done, because all was already mortgaged to the brink to an American bank.

I slumped with my head in my hands, my brain storming for a solution. All I could figure was to call the Scottish firm and plead with them, beg them to give us a second chance.

Sleep eluded me, and thanks to time difference, I was able to execute my skinny plan in the middle of the night. The man I spoke to had empathy. He said he understood and that he would contact his client and explain the issue. It calmed me enough to grasp a few hours of sleep.

First thing in the morning I called the restaurant and cancelled my shifts. I would compensate by pulling doubles on the week-end. I helped Bo and drove to the hospital right for the start of visiting hours. I was shocked to see my father both awake and... restrained?

“Darling, come here. Help me undo these things. I want to go home but this bunch of terrorists won’t let me!”

I sighed. Men are the worst patients, and in this area, my father is the worst of men. “Dad, you must stay put. You are ill. You tried to commit suicide. Calm down and let the physicians treat you. I’m handling the farm with Bo, you just rest and get better. For me?”

His cheeks reddened and he glared at me. “Don’t patronize me, missy. I can’t afford to stay here. Last month I cancelled my health insurance. Had to. The vet’s bills had to be paid. Horses come first, you know that.”

“You could have told me. My credit is good. I could get a small loan, max out my credit cards...”

Indignation turned him apoplectic. “T’will be a cold day in Hell when I take money from my daughter! I’m not so old I need to be put in a home, am I? I’ve worked all my life for what I’ve got. I will sort this out my way or not at all...”

The monitors blared as he clutched his chest. Nurses came running and pushed me out. A few minutes later I was allowed back in and told it was an angina attack. Not as bad as a heart attack, by one short step. He had to be monitored closely for at least a week, and stop trying to tear off his drips. They threatened to keep him asleep if he wouldn’t listen.

I squeezed his hand. “Dad, I called the attorney in Scotland. They are willing to compromise, perhaps extend the loan or give us a break. I’ll sort it out for you, and the hospital bill too. I’ll crowd fund it or something. Trust me for once, please? I’m all grown-up, I can handle life. I love you, Dad. Don’t you dare to die on me!”

He nodded weakly, the oxygen mask preventing him to speak. I half-hugged him and left before he’d see me cry.

I was wailing in my car when the phone rang.

“Ms MacFinn? John Smythe speaking. How do you do?”

Posh English words in a Scottish brogue. A weird combination. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and answered. “Fine, how do you do?” I could do it too, the upper class manners.

“After conferring with our client, we have a proposition for you that might solve all your problems. Now, there are prerequisites, which are non-negotiable, before I can discuss it with you.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Tell me what to do.” Don’t look a given horse in the mouth they say. I sure wasn’t going to.

“First you’ll need to take a thorough, how do you say, hum, physical, including extensive blood tests, genetic sequencing and, hum, full gynaecological exam...”

“What!!! Why?” Seriously, what had a loan to do with my lady parts? This was mad, and creepy. Open wide, horsey.

“I can’t tell you that, but once you pass the physical, you’ll understand it was necessary. I’m only allowed to state that the purpose of this is both moral and legal. Of course, my client will cover all fees.”

Right. Perhaps it had to do with insurance, cervical cancer and stuff. “Can I choose the physician?” The exam would be less embarrassing, were my female doctor to perform it.

“Of course. Give us the name and we will send the test list and settle the invoice directly.”

“Thank you. Can I ask...”

“We’ll contact you as soon as we get the results. Good afternoon, Ms MacFinn.”

They didn’t waste time. I got a next day appointment, emailed them the name and puff, done and dusted. The nurse took enough blood to replenish the bank, I was prodded and swabbed for a good hour, then sent for extra Xrays and scans. I hoped I’d get a copy, I wouldn’t be able to afford such extensive tests again before I reached my fifties.

It took two weeks for all the results to come back, and by then my father was home, with an expensive treatment and a monster of a hospital bill to come. He wasn’t cleared for physical work, so he stayed in the house brooding and pushing paperwork. Nothing could cheer him up.

I was struggling with my shifts and the ranch. I took as many doubles and overtime as I could and it still wasn’t enough, but without the Scottish loan to repay I managed to clear most of the late bills. Little miracles.

And then, they called.

“Ms MacFinn, a pleasure to speak with you.”

I responded in kind, and waited for the medical sentence. Did I pass, or was my whole life pouring down the drain? Did they discover a condition I wasn’t aware of yet? Couldn’t he talk faster?

“You have been found suitable for my client’s purpose. Now, the agreement he is seeking involves you and you alone. Your father will have no part in it. Will you be fine with this?”

My sigh of relief must have resonated all the way to Mexico. “Of course, he doesn’t need any more worry. I’d happily take over the loan.”

“It’s not exactly what it would entail. My client is making you a very generous offer. He is ready to erase all your debts, cover your father’s medical bills and provide a team to help with the running of your farm...”

I was biting my tongue not to scream in joy. But the other shoe had yet to drop. There WAS a catch. Obviously. A big one. No one parts with this kind of money for nothing.

“How do you feel about having children, Ms MacFinn?”

“I’m sorry?”

He repeated the question. Was it about my ability to hold a job? I had to be clever with my answer.

“I love children, and I do want to have some, but not in the foreseeable future. I’m twenty four, there is no hurry, really.”

“Forgive me for prying, but do you have a boyfriend, Ms MacFinn?”

In any other circumstances, I would have told him it was none of his business. Really ANY other. But for getting us out of debt and saving my dad’s life, I was ready to admit the brand of my vibrator and how often I used it.

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Good. It will make things simpler. Would it bother you terribly to bring forth your family building schedule and have a child, say, this year?”

“What!?!” Yes, what the heck was he speaking about?

Unfazed, he went on. “I’m talking surrogacy here, Ms MacFinn. My client is looking for a woman to carry his child, and you match all the specifications. You are healthy, of Scottish descent, genetically compatible, and likely to breeze through pregnancy and childbirth without complications. We are considering, as you Americans say, a ‘traditional’ surrogacy, so you would have to provide the egg. It is perfectly legal, in both your state and my country. As you are not planning to raise children right now, this should be no obstacle.”

I was struggling to get my head around this. I would have a baby, which would be half mine, and give it away. How could I ever do that?

“Is it the only way? Would he not consider something else, anything else?”

“I’m afraid not, Ms MacFinn. Of course, you are free to refuse, but then, any leniency regarding your loan would be off the table.”

I felt the blood rush from my face to my stomach, where it morphed into a giant boulder. An image of my dad on his hospital bed flashed through my mind. I couldn’t let it happen again.

“Could he not use his wife’s egg?” At least the baby wouldn’t be mine.

“He is single. And it has to be yours. You are one of the very rare women compatible.”

“Single? Why does he want a child? He could adopt one?”

“I will not discuss my client’s life decisions with you, Ms MacFinn. This is the deal. Will you take it?”

“I... I don’t know. It’s a big decision. Can I think about it?” I was shaking. This was a nightmare.

“Of course. You have two weeks. Any other questions you would have?”

I wracked my mind and found a few. Details. The Devil’s favorite hideout. “Where would the insemination be performed? Here or in the UK?”

“There shall not be one. My client is a very private person. He will not have his genetic material handled without supervision, let alone sent abroad. You will have to come to his home, and remain there until the end of the pregnancy. It is implied that said pregnancy shall occur the natural way. As is customary, all your expenses will be covered.”