The night was dark, with not even a
sliver of a moon to illuminate the cloud-filled sky. Little Red Riding Hood
crouched, huddled beneath the canopy of the giant oak. Clutching her knees to
her, she struggled to control her ragged breathing, hoping to mask the sound of
her location. She had always known it would end somehow and yet. . . No! She
shook herself mentally. There was no time for that, no room for doubt or second
guesses.
Drawing in a deep breath, she thought,
Calm down, Red. She chuckled. Look what
he’d done to her. It was almost as though her given name no longer existed.
Closing her eyes, she attempted to go back to that day, the day they’d met.
Instead she saw him, sitting comfortably on the floor, cross-legged in front of
the fire, easily picking some chords on the strings of his guitar. The image
blurred, interrupted by a violent crash, a flash of gray fur, and enormous jaws
clamped around the throat of the man she loved. Her eyes sprang open and fear
immobilized her once more. It was better to keep her eyes open.
Fixating on the bleakness ahead of
her, her mind wandered back. Their meeting had been circumstantial,
happenstance, mere chance, a twist of fate. It wasn’t that she - like every other
female throughout the world - didn’t enjoy his music, she just didn’t have the
obsession of some. When the local radio station advertised the contest for
backstage passes and a pre-show reception, naturally she had called in. Even
when she correctly answered the trivia questions and the passes were rightfully
hers, she had traded them for the front row seats her best friend had spent a
month’s wages to buy. Stella would appreciate the passes more and Ginger could
experience it vicariously as each detail was conveyed to her afterward.
So the night of the concert, when
Stella had unexpectedly been taken to the hospital for an emergency
appendectomy, Ginger reluctantly allowed the limousine service to pick her up
at her college dormitory and had taken her roommate Brittney as company
instead.
Even so, it was unlikely their
meeting should have been any more than a polite introduction, him autographing
a t-shirt and then, flanked by his body guards, moving on to one of the other
49 people in the room. She could blame her parents - or rather thank them - for
the meeting resulting in anything more. A leaf, unable to hold the droplets it
carried any longer, released a short, icy stream over Ginger’s shoulders. She
shuddered, drew her cloak more tightly around her and listened for any sounds
of encroaching danger. There was nothing.
Her mind wandered back. As she had
expected, doubtlessly fulfilling the publicity portion of his contract, the
musician had dutifully approached her and introduced himself. “Ginger,” she had
replied.
He stared, his eyes going from her eyes
to her tresses; long, full and with the black shimmer of raven’s wings. He
wasn’t the first to question her name, so she knew exactly what he was
thinking. “It was what my mother craved all throughout her pregnancy while she
carried me; ginger ale, ginger bread, certain dishes of Chinese food.” Stop talking, whispered the voice of
reason, but her mouth couldn’t seem to comply. “My father spent so many nights
out fetching her latest whim for her that he swore that ‘Ginger’ would be my
name.” Smile, shake his hand, and walk
away, the voice cautioned more loudly. “It seems ridiculous now, but he
couldn’t have known I’d have ink-black hair, I was bald, you see. . . when I
was a baby.” QUIT SPEAKING. Finally,
the voice of logic pierced her consciousness, but as she always did when
nervous and under scrutiny, she’d babbled on, unable to stop.
Mostly he’d just stared as she
babbled on, a wicked grin slowly forming at the corners of his mouth. Finally,
when she’d finished her empty headed comments, he’d responded. “It’s nice to
meet you, Little Red.”
“Ginger,” she’d repeated.
Smiling, he’d walked away.
The memory warmed her as the night
grew colder. She wasn’t one to live in the past, but old memories seemed to be
the only thing to keep reality at bay, and reality was something she was ill
prepared to face in her current state.
“Hey, Red.”
In her mind she heard him almost as
if he’d been standing there beside her now. Her ears had burned. She’d hated
him then, hated him more than any other being she’d ever met. So what if he was
famous, rich, good looking and gifted, he was clearly arrogant and so full of
himself he couldn’t even remember her name. She’d looked away, pretending not
to hear him.
“Red.”
“I think he means you,” Brittney
had prompted.
“That’s not my name.”
“So go tell him that.”
And she had. In a stream of words
she was embarrassed to recall, she’d very clearly laid out her name, her exact
thoughts on him, and probably her soap-box philosophies of a half a dozen other
topics, so it had surprised her when he’d followed her mad ranting with, “Will
you stay? After the show, I mean. I never eat beforehand because I get nervous
and no one pays to see a show where the main act vomits all over the stage.”
She’d been stunned into silence.
Almost involuntarily, she’d nodded. The lonely howl of a wolf brought her out
of her reverie and back to her sub-zero reality. It was over then. Deep inside,
from that first night they’d shared a meal in his trailer, she had known it
could never end well. She was ordinary and he. . . well, he was too, if you discounted
the view the world held on him.
Forcing herself back into the past,
she thought again of another dinner, this time in lowly-lit restaurant in a
distant city to which he had paid her airfare.
“I’m Hunter,” he’d informed her.
“Excuse me?”
“The name you keep calling me, well
you and everyone else; it’s a stage name. My real name is Hunter. Hunter
Kepling.”
“And yet, you can’t seem to call me
Ginger. You can’t imagine what it is to get through airport security when the name
on the ticket is ‘Little Red’.” Truthfully she had grown fond of the name,
accustomed to the sound of it issuing from his lips.
“Does it really bother you?”
“No. But I want to be certain you
know that isn’t truly my name.”
“Yes, Ginger. I am very well aware
of your name. In fact it is one of the few names I’ve been unable to get out of
my mind.”
“Hunter?” she’d practiced, blushing
deeply.
“Hunter.”
“HUNTER!!!!” Calling out to him was
foolish. Her position had just been given away, but if there were any hope, any
last remaining chance that he had survived, she wanted to know it. Silence
answered her.
Grandmother’s house; it had been
their code, just in case a call or text were somehow intercepted. My grandmother is ill. Will you take her
some soup? The message would come and she would conceal herself in a dark
cloak, slip out into the night, and drive up the canyon to a trail head some
distance off the road. From there, she would saddle a horse, who instinctively
knew the way, and make her way deep into the forest to a remote dwelling.
They’d been together for over a
year before he’d taken her there. It was only later that she’d learned he’d
bought the home just to have a place near her where they could be alone
together.
It was at her insistence that their
relationship remain undisclosed. How would she ever earn her degree with a
constant stream of cameras following her to the library while she tried to
study? She could only imagine the crowds of reporters blocking her way as she
attempted to make it to classes on time. What would the media have made of a
private residence where the two of them went to avoid the public?
She knew what the media would make
of it. They would call it a love shack, a lover’s retreat, and a myriad of
other names that wrongfully labeled their secret location. Surely the portrayal
would be of the romantic glow of firelight in each of the rooms, rose petal
strewn carpets, soft, downy bed coverings. The thought sickened her. It was
nothing like that. Firelight filled only the large fireplace in the living
room, providing warmth for cold evenings such as this one. The only strewn rose
petals were those that fell naturally from the roses that grew wildly in the
grounds surrounding the property. There was indeed a bed, two of them to be
precise, but they had never shared either of them.
It was a retreat, but not a lover’s
retreat. It was a place where he could cook dinner as she studied for finals. It
was a place where they could walk for several miles, talking as they went and
never meeting another living being while he photographed wildlife. There, in
their retreat, was a kitchen where she could bake bread and combine ingredients
for hearty soups while he worked on his music; not the lyrics he performed on
the stage, but the music that had to be written because it was his way of
expression. One room housed his artwork. It was a skill he only pursued in the
confines of the cottage. No party in the world was privy to that side of him.
So, to protect its sanctity, it had been their secret.
Only now did she realize how
foolish her decision had been. Surely she should have at least told her
parents. It wasn’t as though they would make a big deal of it or that they
would let the word slip; but she’d insisted that they tell no one and so now
there was no one to come for them.
A second wail sounded, long and
hollow and was met with a chorus of howling replies. It would come for her now,
probably leading the pack. Her scent filled that house as much as his. Perhaps,
if she ran now, she could reach the stables before the wolf reached her.
The image she had fought all night
forced itself upon her. Neither she nor Hunter had expected the attack when the
wolf came crashing in through the large glass doors that led to the back patio,
but when it threw itself on Hunter, impulsively, she had reacted. Her attempt
to open the jaws clenched around his throat were futile as its carnivorous
teeth had been sunk deeply into the jugular vein. Even now, beneath the mud and
now constant drizzle of rain, his blood was bright on her hands.
“Run!” he had managed to gasp before his
airway had completely been obstructed with the blood gurgling in his throat.
Obediently she had run, fleeing for her safety. It was only now as she sat in
the darkness, concealed by the mask of night that she regretted her decision.
Foolish as it would have been to meet the certain death that would surely have
come to her if she had stayed, how could she live with herself now, knowing she
had abandoned him in his darkest hour? What volumes did it speak of her as a
person that at the greatest challenge of her life she had turned away and fled
in self-preservation? Even so, what use was it if both of them were to die? Her
life would go on. She would never love again, of that she was certain, but she
could move forward and find new meaning in her solitary existence.
How much time had passed; minutes,
hours, there was no way to measure with any certainty. She could go back, but .
. .the image of what awaited her was not a memory she wanted forever housed in
her mind. Eventually, the authorities would come; questions would follow. . . and
with his blood on her hands. . . no one would ever believe that a wolf had forcibly
entered the premises and attacked him. Besides, she would be found soon enough
and this time she would turn and face the challenge, not cower in fear and run
away. As if in response to her thoughts, a twig snapped behind her. Drawing on
all of her strength, all of her will, she stood and turned, ready for the wolf
or for the authorities or for whatever had come for her.
“Hunter?” It was impossible.
“Red.” He stumbled forward,
grabbing the tree for support, nearly dropping the propane lantern he carried.
“But. . . I heard the wolf
howling.”
“Wolves run in packs.” Her
confusion must have shown in her expression. “When their leader was killed,
they mourned his loss.”
“Killed? You mean –“
“It’s not just my name, Red, it’s a
title, a means of survival. I AM HUNTER!” He paused, posing as though in the
stance of an archer. His expression softened. “Don’t worry. My manager has it
all worked out. No one will buy a wolf attack. I’m supposed to meet him at the
main road as soon as I can so we can stage a tragic car accident wherein I am
critically injured, but triumphantly manage to survive.”
“What?”
“Do you want to be the driver of
the other vehicle? Maybe that could be our chance meeting that led to our quick
engagement and long, beautiful romance; that is if you are ready to be
introduced to the world.”
There were too many emotions for a
single night and Ginger felt herself weakened. “You’re awfully confident for
one so nearly dead.”
His chuckle, one of the sounds she
favored most in the world, answered her. He stepped forward, using one arm to
draw her in, the other to keep pressure against the vein in his neck. His words
were low, whispered into her dark tresses. “Gunther, my manager, wanted me to
come right away, but I had to find you to make sure you were okay. I’ve been
trying to find a way to ask you, but . . . nothing ever came to me, nothing
except this certainty; I want you in my life, Red. . .permanently.”
“Hunter, I—”
“You don’t have to decide right
now, but if you could drive me back to the road, I’d appreciate it. I think I’m
about to pass out.”
Draping his arm across her
shoulders, they stumbled through the trees, back toward “grandma’s house” where
she could load him on the off road vehicle and drive him carefully out to the
main road. Perhaps she would be the driver of the other car, or maybe an
innocent bystander. . . creepily standing alone at the side of the road. . . in
the dead of night. . . on a two lane road. No. She would have the rest of their
married life to meet his public.
Tonight she would leave him with Gunther, who would see to his needs, see to
the press, and conceal what had really happened this evening.
She would go back to the cottage,
haul the carcass out to bury it, sweep up the glass, install bars on all the
windows, and wash the blood out of the carpet. In a few days she would purchase
a dress and go to him for an intimate ceremony. Then, when he had recovered and
was ready to come home, she would be there waiting for him.
