She was uncannily agile. She turned the doorknob swiftly and within seconds she had crossed to the narrow, winding stairwell. He noticed that she ignored the elevator, which had been installed only a few years before she moved away, as if she had regressed to a much earlier acquaintance with the house. But she seemed to know the stairs intimately. She took them quickly, her bare feet equally noiseless on the aged wood of the upper floors and the cold stone of the lower levels. Her nightgown pooled on the steps behind her, hiding her feet, which contributed to Drew’s disconcerting sensation of having stumbled into someone else’s dream.
He followed closely, his skin prickling as her somber profile, just a pale oval below him, moved in and out of the moonlight. Her dark hair seemed to melt into the darkness around her—he hadn’t ever realized before that it was the exact color of midnight shadows, but now, he knew, it was one more detail he’d never forget.
When she reached the ground floor, it was clear she was going straight to the conservatory, just as she had told him she would. Watching her maneuver around the furniture, Drew was glad he’d never redecorated the main rooms of the house. Clearly she was operating with some kind of memory radar. Even Drew, who had lived here for three whole years, bumped the edge of an occasional table, jostled the carved arm of a chair here and there, but Laura sailed past it all, her unseeing eyes looking straight ahead, never bothering to check her path.
It wasn’t until she reached the conservatory door that she showed any signs of uncertainty. Drew, expecting her to rush in, was caught unaware, and had to stop so close behind her that he could have identified the scent of the sachet in which she’d packed her clothes. He was also near enough to see that the fingers she wrapped around the doorknob were trembling.
She kept her hand there for several long seconds, which were ticked heavily away by the grandfather clock in the hall behind them. Drew moved to the side, where he could see her face. Though her expression was blank, there was a strange helplessness in her posture, in the way she clung to the doorknob, not quite able to turn it. She was as diffident as a child sent on a too-difficult errand, unsure of the way forward but afraid to go back.
Childlike. Drew shook his head, realizing that in some inexplicable way Laura actually had become a child again. But how unlike the children he was familiar with. His sister’s daughters were bold and rambunctious and would have noisily barged ahead anywhere, any time, demanding whatever help or attention they needed. Drew’s heart pinched, suddenly sure that Laura had never known such boisterous confidence, that as a child she probably had often been paralyzed with insecurity. And fear.
Abruptly, as if propelled by a desperate blast of sheer will, Laura twisted the knob and, flinging the door open, entered the conservatory. She seemed to be past hesitation, past fear. She went straight toward the heart of the huge room, where all the sculptures were clustered. Drew followed her quickly, closing the door behind them.
He stopped two paces in. How exotic everything looked, how transformed by the moonlight, which poured in through thousands of clear glass panes. Because Drew rarely came here at night, he had been subconsciously expecting to enter a warm green world, and he was momentarily stunned by the odd, almost metallic glow around him. The moonlight had painted the plants in subtle shades of silver, white and gray. The entire room shimmered as Laura moved through it, touching a pearled leaf with a fingertip, brushing an argent branch with the long sleeve of her nightgown.
Drew, who was not given to fancies, suddenly had a vision of Laura as one of Damian’s statues, miraculously brought to life by this strange silver glow. Graceful, white, stirringly sensual, though only half-real. He watched her intently from the shadows, as if, should he even for an instant take his eyes from her, she might revert to inanimate marble and be lost to him forever.
She passed the mermaid and the dark, glassy pond without giving them a glance. She didn’t stop until she reached the marble carving of her own head that stared at her from the breast-high pedestal. It was a curious sight and somehow unsettling—the adult Laura coming face to face with the knowing marble eyes of the child Laura. Rigid from an illogical impulse to stop her, Drew steadied himself against the cool bark of the nearest trunk and took a deep breath. Settle down, he instructed himself. What harm could looking at it do? It was, after all, just a chunk of marble.
He watched as Laura reached out and touched the stone face gently, tilting her head to one side, as if asking the mute child a question. She traced the white curve of the little girl’s cheek with two fingers, then stroked her hair, cupping the palm of her hand around her head, as if she offered warmth and comfort.
Then, to Drew’s horror, with no warning whatsoever, Laura began to cry. Her mouth opened in a silent moan, and silver tears gleamed like a lining of mercury along her lower lids. She dragged both hands slowly along the statue’s head, clutching even as she pulled away, as though she were being wrenched from the child against her will.
Then, as if she received orders from some voice only she could hear, she shut her eyes, the tears dripping in thick, anguished paths down her cheeks, and she brought her shaking hands to her neck, where she clumsily began to unbutton her nightgown.
Drew froze, the hair on his arms raising in a primitive reaction to something profoundly wrong. He had been sympathetic, of course, when Laura had told him her story of these midnight walks. But he had not understood, not even begun to reckon, how blood-chilling the reality of this appalling ritual could be. It was a harrowingly slow process. One button opened, one inch of pale, silvered skin exposed at a time. Drew tried to swallow and, failing, choked slightly, but she didn’t seem to hear him.
She bowed her head, dropping her small, pointed chin almost to her breastbone, and her fingers continued their dreadful labors.
Finally the gown was fully open, and still silently weeping, Laura eased it from her shoulders. It fell to the ground around her feet, just as it had done last night. But this was different, so shockingly different. Oh, God... Drew dug his fingers into the trunk, flecks of bark penetrating painfully under his nails. Why had he promised not to interrupt her ordeal? His legs ached from the need to go to her, and his heart was pounding, bruising his ribs.
She was too beautiful for this, he thought incoherently, his thoughts strangling on his flooding emotions. Too beautiful to suffer so. Instantly the moon claimed her, capturing her in its garish searchlight, as if she had been required to present herself for its cold inspection. And she allowed it. Like a prisoner, she submitted to it, though her tears came so fast now that they traced a shining path down her neck, across her collarbone, curving down the graceful swell of one breast.
No, damn it. No! Unable to bear it another minute, Drew reached out, catching her naked body in his arms just as the last of her courage seemed to drain away, and she began to sink to her knees.
“Laura, darling,” he murmured, folding her up against his pounding heart. “Oh, God, Laura.” He wrapped his arms around her, as if he could, by shielding her from the moonlight, protect her from whatever magnetic evil had drawn her here. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” he whispered. “It’s going to be all right.”
But Laura didn’t hear him. As soon as his arms touched her, she had gone completely limp. With a long, low sigh she had turned her face into his shoulder, and her whole body had relaxed against him. Like an exhausted, frightened child who has finally endured too much, Laura had retreated into sleep.
* * *
THE MINUTE she woke up, Laura knew she had walked in her sleep. She could feel the cool kiss of satin against her naked breast, and her legs slid easily across the slick sheets, unimpeded by her nightgown.
The knowledge didn’t startle her at first. It had happened a hundred mornings in her life. But then she raised herself up on one elbow, holding the blanket to her chest, and saw her blue gown draped neatly, carefully, across the foot of the bed
She lay back, scalded. She knew, with a helpless certainty, what the ni
ghtgown meant. This morning wasn’t like all the others. It wasn’t her mother who had tucked her naked, tear-stained body into bed last night. It was Drew.
She groaned, thinking of Drew carrying her upstairs, placing her carefully between the sheets. Drew, who had never seen her naked before. Drew, who had once hungered to be her lover. Drew, who had once adored her, thought her worthy of taking his name, bearing his children, sharing his life. With a low cry, she turned her head into the pillow, a sharp pain digging into her throat as she fought stupid tears. He would never feel those things for her again. How could he, after this?
In a way, it shocked her to discover how much she hated the thought of him seeing her like that. She had assured herself he was the perfect person to turn to because he’d always known she was troubled, mixed-up, hung up. Whatever euphemism she chose, he’d long since come to grips with it.
But this was different, infinitely worse. Now he knew she was really, truly crazy.
She lay there a long time, staring at the rounded tower walls, before she felt ready even to stand up. To her relief, when she did finally climb out of bed, pulling the gown tightly around herself, Drew was gone. Perhaps he’d guessed she’d need time to compose herself before she faced him again.
She spent an obsessive hour dressing, finally picking from her limited wardrobe a pair of black stirrup pants and an oversize delft blue sweater, in which she felt comfortably asexual. Her body seemed foreign to her this morning, she thought, checking all angles in the bathroom mirror, making sure her curves were thoroughly hidden. It was strangely as if her body now belonged more to him than to herself. Quelling a deep shiver at the thought of him looking at her, learning at his leisure all the intimate secrets he must have thought he’d never know, she pulled her hair into a tight ponytail and decided to forgo makeup. Of all things, she didn’t want to look as if she was trying to be sexy. What, she wondered, could be less sexy than a crazy lady who wandered around, confused and naked and out of control?
She found him in his office, two floors down. Ginger was with him, her classy beige and white business suit hugging all the right places, proclaiming her professionalism and her sexuality in one crisply tailored statement. Watching the secretary bend over Drew’s shoulder, reading the document he was holding, Laura had to fight down a spurt of spiteful jealousy. In that moment, she would have given three small kingdoms to be able to trade places with Ginger. Or, as a second choice, to be able to beam the blonde right off the planet.
Drew and Ginger both looked up as Laura entered, and Laura wondered whether that odd expression in Drew’s eye was embarrassment. And didn’t Ginger’s stare have perhaps an extra measure of avid speculation? But when Laura looked closer, both of them seemed perfectly normal, perhaps just a little curious as to why she had interrupted them. She shook herself mentally. She couldn’t go around reading significance into every lift of Drew’s brow, every minute alteration of the set of his lips. And surely, surely he wouldn’t ever have spoken of this to Ginger.
Well, whether he had or not, this definitely wasn’t the moment to ask him exactly what had happened last night. Fighting the urge to cross her arms protectively over her breasts, she raised her chin and straightened her shoulders.
“I just wanted to tell you I'm going out for a walk,” she lied, and then she felt her face flame violently as she realized that the word “walk” had taken on embarrassing implications. God, what next? “Sex” and “love” had been verboten for years. If she didn’t get hold of herself, she’d be reduced to communicating in grunts.
Drew dropped the document on his desk casually, seemingly unaware of her confusion. “Better not go far. They're predicting snow this afternoon.”
Rationally, Laura knew it was merely a friendly warning, but the miserable demon in her chose to take offense. Don’t go far? Did he now consider her so helpless and incompetent that she needed a leash, a keeper? Don’t let the crazy lady wander far. No telling what she'll do to embarrass us in front of the neighbors.
“Don’t worry about me,” she replied stiffly. “I can take care of myself.”
Instantly, even before he raised his brows quizzically, she was ashamed.
There was no need to snipe at him. He was just being polite, a careful host. She, on the other hand, was being a jerk, letting her acute sense of humiliation overrule her manners. Maybe he had even been hinting that he wouldn’t be long with Ginger, that soon they would be able to talk privately.
“Well, at least in broad daylight I can,” she amended with a small smile, hoping he understood it was an apology. With Ginger curiously looking from one to the other of them, she couldn’t say anything more explicit.
“Fine, then,” Drew said, picking up his document again. Laura understood that she was being dismissed. “Have fun.”
* * *
WHEN the first flakes began to fall, Laura had been walking for about an hour, long enough to work up a pleasant burn in her legs, long enough to visit most of her favorite places on the estate. She had always liked the grounds of Winterwalk better than the house. They were spacious and beautifully landscaped and normal.
Or nearly normal. There was, after all, the issue of the boat landing. In keeping with the Venetian flavor of the house, the architect had decided to put an authentic Italian dock out on the eastern edge of the grounds. It didn’t matter that Winterwalk was miles from the nearest body of water. The ornate dock floated here under the trees, just as if someone might need to tether his gondola to one of its brilliantly glazed terra-cotta pillars.
Laura had always loved the wide, open platform of the dock, and the silly birds and fish that had been carved into the trim. She had spent many hours here, dreaming, and Drew had often asked her why she appreciated the nonsense of a landlocked dock when she couldn’t understand the whimsy of Winterwalk itself. She hadn’t been able to answer him very well, except to say that she could breathe better out here.
It was there Drew found her, staring at the white sea of snow that rolled out in all directions.
“Still waiting for your ship to come in?”
It was an old joke. “Waiting for my captain to come home,” she would have answered once, long ago, turning happily into his arms, meeting his kiss.
Today, though the words sprang to her lips as naturally as bubbles from a spring, she forced them back, unspoken.
“Hello, Drew,” she said, wincing at the formality of it, but unable to do better. She felt tongue-tied from the effort to avoid saying the wrong things, the old things.
“Hi.” Drew smiled at her, and she found herself smiling back. He looked different somehow. She studied his face for a second, and then all at once she realized the change was merely in his clothes. He had abandoned his suit for a thick, cream-colored turtleneck sweater, brown suede jacket and casual brown pants. He looked wonderful, the perfect country gentleman. Two pairs of ice skates were slung over his shoulder, one black, one white.
“Where’s Ginger?” she inquired politely, ignoring the skates. “Work all done?”
“All done,” he echoed. “We bought everything there was to buy, sold everything there was to sell, so we decided to call it a day.”
“Wow. And it’s not even noon yet.” She couldn’t quite figure out what to make of his lighthearted tone. He sounded a little like someone visiting a sick relative, determined to buoy her spirits, to take her mind off her illness. “Now what?”
“And now,” he answered with mock solemnity, “you and I, madam, are going to take my nieces and nephews ice-skating on the pond.”
She laughed, incredulous. “I am? I don’t even have any skates!”
He dropped one shoulder, sliding the white skates free with a flourish. “Your skates, my lady.”
Unbelievably, they were her skates. She had left them behind when she’d left. They must have been somewhere among all that clutter in the attic. How amazing that he’d been able to find them! She touched the flashing blade with her fingertip. It was as cold
and sharp as an icicle.
Every winter since they were children, she and Drew had skated together on the pond between their two estates. Once, when they had rushed the season a bit, the too thin ice had cracked beneath her, and Drew had had to pull her out. The memory saddened her somehow. Poor Drew. He had practically made a career out of rescuing her, hadn’t he?
“I don’t have the right kind of socks,” she demurred, reluctant to relive those memories. Sometimes the gentle memories seemed even harder to face than the frightening ones. They could do more than make you walk in your sleep. They could break your heart.
He dug in the pocket of his jacket. “Socks,” he said smugly, dangling a pair of thick, diamond-patterned woolen socks in front of her. He rooted around some more. “And gloves. And a hat.”
She laughed, letting him fill her arms with it all. “Good heavens. Anything else in there?”
He patted his pockets, double-checking. “I'm not sure. I may have the baby grand in here somewhere, too.”
Their smiling gazes locked, and Drew put out his hand. Laura felt herself succumbing. Why not, she thought, suddenly ready to defy the grim gods who seemed so determined to tie her life in knots. They were the gods of the night. They had no power over days like this, days that were a frosty, windswept blue, days when Drew stood next to her, holding out his hand, inviting her to forget for a little while.
Why not? She knew all too well the answer to that self-indulgent question. But, ignoring it, she took his hand and stepped off the dock into the river of snow.
* * *
IT WAS a glorious afternoon—perhaps the most wonderful afternoon she had ever spent, she thought with an expansive, swelling happiness as she looped the pond one more time, little Nina’s hand in hers. Stephanie’s children were enchanting, though certainly not angels, she admitted, feeling the most recent snowball melting along her hairline. They were far too normal to be angels. But they were lovely and loving, high-spirited and clever. And, because they adored their uncle Drew, they embraced Uncle Drew’s lady friend, as well.
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