OPHELIA: Chapter 11

Blurb

Elizabeth Lockwick wants one thing… to ensure Ophelia remains dead.

For years she’s weaved a life seen through rose-coloured glasses in idyllic Vermont with her husband Sebastian Lockwick, an alluring man with a broken moral compass, whose intent lies in protecting his wife. However, apart from her unorthodox understanding of Sebastian’s dark and gritty hidden nature, she finds herself slipping away from her sanity in maintaining this picturesque life.

After receiving a gruesome gift from an unknown sender threatening to expose her, she finds herself haunted and possibly hunted by her buried past.

In order to make things right for herself and ensure that her secret is hidden, she reluctantly travels back to her sleepy small hometown in Wisconsin. A town where young girls seem to be mysteriously disappearing. There, she reunites with the dysfunctional Pierre-Louis’, a French-American family who sheltered her in their manor in her time of need.

With time slipping away, she struggles with her guilt and a dangerous affair and realizes that perhaps Ophelia wasn’t dead after all these years.

Elizabeth suddenly finds herself caught in a game of cat and mouse, unsure of which she really is this time and who she can trust.

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Chapter 11

 

San Gimignano, Tuscany, Italy.

Elizabeth walked along the cobblestone pathway and stopped at the little café on the side. It was more so a bakery if she was honest. This was the address given to her by the owner of Café Magnolia. He told her the painter and his artwork would be found in Tuscany. Ordering a salted caramel latte, she frowned at the situation. ‘This trip better be worth something’ she hoped, opened her journal, and began writing.

I arrived in Tuscany forty-five minutes ago. The air always feels a bit fresher away from Sebastian. I can breathe now finally, yet why am I unable to? Why is my heart constricting me so much? Am I scared? Will he find out I’ve lied to him about this trip? No. He never questioned me about my whereabouts. But what if he begins to? No. I know nothing of his past nor family and he knows nothing of mine. It’s best if he just thinks I’m on a business trip. He always lies to me. Guilt is not to be felt with our complex relationship. And yet, Ophelia, I am here and my heart still thumps like Caribbean drums. Deep down, you and I both know why.

Elizabeth closed the book in frustration and pushed her hair away from her face while the young employee brought her drink to her. The café was a small, quaint little shop with too many artwork plastered upon the walls. Not many customers visited. The ones whom were stapled to their seats seemed more so like the local regulars. A man walked in holding two large canvases and nodded to the cashier who then called an older man out from the kitchen. Few words were exchanged as he gave the paintings to the old man across the counter. The baristas seemed to be a little nervous around the man and giggled at least twice while he spoke. His demeanor however felt more polite than flirty.

Elizabeth casually sipped her latte and soaked in the man’s actions. The way he smiled with his teeth, showing his soft dimples, or how he’d nonchalantly rub the back of his neck towards his chin indecisive of which pastries to choose from. He turned towards her and she held her journal before her face. Turning back, he cashed for a loaf of bread and what seemed to be jam tarts and puff pastries.    

Her stomach flipped as he walked out the door and she realized the reality of her situation. Following the man out the door, she kept her distance remaining cautious so that he won’t see her. The streets were not very busy which made following him quite a challenge, but she walked as casual as she could have a pace to. The pathway narrowed and she walked up a slightly sloped hill. The scenery was lovely she had to admit, cobblestone streets and vine walls which grew upon the old bricks. The man suddenly knocked on a door and Elizabeth stopped, hiding just around the corner.

An elderly woman opened the door and greeted him natively. He then gave the woman the bag of goods he had bought from the café. At first the woman’s expression was filled with so much shame but he seemed to be reassuring her by his body language and she accepted it gratefully. He continued walking a few steps forward and unlocked what seemed to be his small place of abode. Elizabeth gave him a few minutes to walk in and maybe then she would attempt to pick the lock when the street was vacant.

Her hands trembled nervously as she placed them on the door when she realized that it was already unlocked and left ajar. He knew. Her heart hammered but she forced herself to regain what was left of her composure. The door opened to a mid-lit staircase which travelled up to another door. The bricks which caved the staircase were old and dusty but there was something oddly breathtaking about it; like untold stories etched into every crack and lost within the crumbles.

The sound of soft instrumental was heard from a radio that seemed to be forgotten to turn off too many times too often. It was a cozy apartment with just enough space. Slipping off her shoes, she walked through the small yet neat little hall which led to the living area and felt the soft plush carpet kiss the soles of her tired feet. The room flowed towards a decently sized balcony that overlooked the city. There he stood, back faced towards her. In that soft blue, fine white lined, shirt. The wind giggled to his body. His brown tousled hair that fell in curls to the nape of his neck. He looked out towards the city with a glass of merlot in his right hand.

For the first time in a long time Elizabeth felt her words struggling for breath within her. And that’s the thing about pasts. When you bury them too deep, too painfully, too soon, they all too often resurface and the struggle to accept that memory as a reality sometimes drives you to a madness. It takes away your very breath and chokes you in its revenge.

“Ophelia Lucien,” He spoke, unmoved. His voice was strong yet gentle like a thick rich substance that oozed into her soul. And yet, there was a pain that intertwined within it. “I heard you go by the name Elizabeth now.”

“Stefan,” she breathed, hurt.

He turned and placed the wine at the side of the table with a soft smile. His eyes were always striking, something between a storm and a forest, grey and green.

“I’m surprised you aren’t staying in Florence,” she smiled.

He let out a soft laugh and neared her, “My mother, you mean.”

“Well, I assumed you might have missed her and chose that City to reminisce her name. I suppose though that your mother however is-” she stopped and acknowledged their nearness. There was always this deep surreal aura that dripped from his soul. Like a beautiful memory of something which occurred years ago but now extinct and dipped into a hallucination. “Home.” She finished.

“Stefan, Monty is…”

“I know.” His eyes were filled with a dark gloom, but he armored his pain before her. The skin of their hands gently grazed against each other. Ophelia wanted nothing more than to bring her head a few inches forward to rest on the warmth of his chest. He could sense the chill that drenched her body and the pain that drifted her to him. And yet, she made him helpless. He fought every atom in his body not to fall a victim to what he was feeling.

“And now your sister is missing because of me,” she held in a sob. Her face stained of beauty and heartache. “I can’t live with myself if anything happens to Claire Marie.”

“Ophelia, Lily,” he tried to reassure her with a name he used to call her a long time ago. “Nothing will happen to Claire.”

“And what if something does?” She stepped back, “We can’t keep living like this Stef, we can’t. I can’t.”

“It’s alright to feel fear. It’s human.”

“And are you? Fearful.”

“I am, why would you think I’m not? Because I don’t show it? Neither do you, Ophelia, yet here we are.”

“Je ne suis pas bien.” She frowned deeply. “And I won’t be until she’s found. She’s a child and shouldn’t have to pay for what I did ten years ago.”

“You were a child,” he reminded her.

“Monty died because he knew. Please take care of yourself.” She sighed, about to walk out.

“Ophelia, where are you going?” 

“I came to meet you to tell you I’m going back. It wouldn’t be right to go there without you knowing.”

He followed and grabbed onto her wrist, pulling her to him gently, keeping their faces a breath apart while lowering his face down upon hers. “Please think this through.”

“I have.”

**

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