Memory Lapse

by Kathleen O’Brien

  “What do you say we name it?” Drew nudged her with his hand. “How about 'Last Call At the Nightmare Bar and Grill'?”

  “Perfect.” She turned to him, smiling, agreeing. She felt happy out here in the bright blue sunlight, with his arm around her, with the gargoyles tamed and her fear of them conquered, at least for today. She felt so good, so unbelievably strong, and somehow she knew she owed it all to Drew.

  And then he kissed her. It wasn’t a demanding kiss, or a pitying kiss, or even a despairing kiss, all of which she would have hated. It was merely a quick, warm touch of his lips, a sharing of joy, of freedom, of hope. It was, perhaps, the most wonderful kiss she had ever been given.

  And then she knew what somehow, somewhere deep inside, she must have known all along. She was as much in love with Drew Townsend as she’d been on the day she’d promised to become his wife.

  8

  HE REALLY THOUGHT she would sleep peacefully that night. He didn’t know what had frightened her this afternoon, but he knew that, whatever it was, staying in the conservatory and staring it down must have been an empowering experience. And then, out by the dock, when he had acted so silly about the gargoyles, her face had looked so young and carefree, kissed pink by the cold wind and relaxed by her laughter. She hadn’t even seemed to mind when he, too, had kissed her. Perhaps, he thought, she wouldn’t need to visit the conservatory tonight—even in her dreams.

  Because he was so optimistically sure of all that, he let his guard down and slept deeply. And therefore he was fuzzily disoriented when he heard her soft footsteps coming across his room. He raised up on one elbow, squinting at the clock on his nightstand. Three a.m. His heart constricted. Oh, Laura...not again.

  But he dragged himself out of bed, scrubbing at his face with the palm of his hand, and followed her, just as he had done the other night, across the hall and down the stairs. It was uncanny how similar her motions were, how perfectly she retraced her steps, as if she was not a real woman but merely an image projected on a screen, repeating the same scene over and over again—a mechanical glitch, doomed to eternal repetition.

  He felt a sudden surge of anger. What in God’s name did she think they could ever gain from this? It was insane, like some refined, sadistic torture, and it would just go on forever. Night after night she would descend into her own private hell, and night after night, helpless, he would have to watch her do it.

  Damn it—why? He gripped the stair rail so hard his fingers throbbed. He would do anything to help her, anything. But how the devil was this sick charade ever going to help anybody? He stopped at the foot of the stairs, wondering whether he ought to follow her. God, how he dreaded the moment when she would begin to unbutton her nightgown. He dreaded her tears, her intense isolation, the white moonlight glistening wetly on her breast. He didn’t want to see her like that again, naked and vulnerable and achingly sensual. He didn’t want to feel that shameful stirring of desire, the slow burning heat that would spread through his limbs against his will. He’d taken advantage of her once. He didn’t want to let it happen again, even if it was only in his thoughts.

  But finally he released the rail and propelled himself forward. Ultimately, it was all about courage, wasn’t it? If she had the courage to let him see her this way, then surely he had the courage to watch.

  When they entered the conservatory, he held himself in rigid control, clamping down hard on any emotions that might weaken his resolve. He tried to become like a statue himself, with marble for a body, marble that was cold and unresponsive, feeling nothing, wanting nothing.

  But then her fingers moved to the first button, and the muscles in his thighs began to burn. Marble, he thought. Cold. She tugged away the nightgown, exposing the curve of her throat. Something shifted low in the pit of his stomach, coiled in on itself, tighter and tighter. And then another button, down to the shadow between her breasts. He made fists with his hands. Feel nothing...nothing. Please. Let me feel nothing.

  Suddenly, as though the projector that had been playing this familiar scene was knocked abruptly haywire, her fingers stopped. Her gown was only halfway open, but she shook her head violently, as if refusing to go any further. Though her cheeks were wet with tears, she made a low sound that, to Drew’s astonished ears, sounded more angry than sad.

  And then, with a visible effort, she turned, facing the storage shelves. She went unerringly for the red toolbox she had opened earlier today, and began blindly, roughly, hunting through it. Tools fell with metallic pings all over the floor around her, but she didn’t seem aware of the disarray she was creating. She kept searching, searching, her fingers sorting, rejecting, digging deeper....

  Finally the box was empty, the floor around her littered with the strange assortment of instruments. Drew’s anxiety deepened as he saw that her face was contorted with sobbing. This was a new level of pain, and it held so much anger he was suddenly frightened. What was she seeing with those blind eyes? At whom was all this weeping fury directed?

  Then, shockingly, she swiveled and began, with flailing, childlike swings, to attack the sculpture of herself. Her arms flew wildly, rarely connecting with the marble. Occasionally, though, she hit her mark, and Drew heard the scraping sound of the pedestal moving across the marble floor.

  She was going to destroy it, was bent on destroying it. Why? His mind struggled, trying to make sense of it. Then the marble head rocked on its pedestal, threatening to fall, and Drew once again acted on impulse, lunging forward to stop her before she hurt herself. He couldn’t let her do this. He knew he wasn’t supposed to interfere, but he damn sure wasn’t going to let her hurt herself.

  Murmuring her name as soothingly as he could, he tried to subdue her. She didn’t seem to hear him. She fought against the restraint instinctively, and the pointed edge of the pedestal dug into his forearm. A sharp pain daggered through him before he could grab hold of her fist, and blood oozed from the inch-long gouge. But he had finally captured both arms, and he held them tightly against her body.

  “Laura.” At the sound of his voice, the fight suddenly drained out of her, and her body went limp in his arms. She was breathing hard, and he could feel from the irregular heaving of her chest that she was still crying. “It’s all right. Shh, now. It’s all right.”

  Slowly he turned her so that her damp face rested against his chest, stroking her head just as he had done this afternoon. It seemed she was always crying in his arms these days, didn’t it? But at least she was in his arms. Somehow that was worth everything.

  He realized he half expected her to sink back into sleep, just as she had done the last time. But slowly, surprisingly, as her crying stopped, her body seemed to solidify in his arms. Suddenly he realized that he wasn’t supporting her anymore—she was standing on her own. Her face was burrowing softly into his naked chest, and her hands had reached around him, clutching the long muscles of his back.

  “Laura?” Her hands stilled. “Laura, look at me.”

  She lifted her head, raising her gaze to him shyly. Her lips were parted, gleaming moistly in the moonlight, and her eyes were soft and doubtful. Fear and need were burning in those beautiful eyes like twin candles. His heart pumped hot relief through his system. Fear and need—oh, yes, that was the real Laura. He softly thumbed her lids closed, and then he leaned down and kissed each eyelid in turn, blessing both the fear and the desire.

  Opening her eyes slowly, she smiled shakily at him. But then, lowering her gaze, she seemed for the first time to notice the blood on his arm.

  “You're hurt,” she said sadly, holding the cut up to the moonlight, tracing its dimensions. “Oh, Drew, did I do that?”

  He nudged her exploring, gentling fingers away. It was nothing. He couldn’t even feel it anymore. “I'm fine,” he said, brushing her hair from her face. “How about you?”

  She nodded. “I think I'm all right,” she said. She seemed to be orienting herself. She looked at the mess around them, though she made no move to leave the circ
le of his arms. “What happened?”

  He held her tighter for a minute before he answered. He didn’t want the truth to frighten her. “You searched through the toolbox,” he said, choosing the least troubling words he could find. “You seemed to be looking for something. And then you began to hit out at the sculpture.”

  She looked over her shoulder at the sad face of the little girl. She shook her head, as if apologizing for the violence. But then she took a deep breath and turned to face him.

  “I think I must have been looking for the knife,” she said slowly.

  He stared at her. “What knife?”

  “This afternoon, when we were here before, I had a memory, just a flash of a memory, and I saw a knife.” She brought two fingers of her left hand up to her neck. “Someone was pointing it at me, lightly touching my throat with it.”

  “Your throat—” The room tilted, and he had to work to keep his balance. His fear felt almost like anger. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t want to talk about it until I could sort it out, until I could remember more of the details. But I think that must have been what I was looking for in Damian’s toolbox, don’t you?”

  “Probably.” Actually, he could hardly think at all. Someone had put a knife to her throat.... The image was so unendurable that adrenaline rushed through his veins, preparing him to punish, destroy whatever hand had held that knife. “But who was it, Laura? Who was holding the knife?”

  She looked away, and he knew what she was thinking. “Was it Damian?” he asked. “Is that what you think happened? Is this the memory you've been looking for?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice suddenly desperate. “It seems crazy, doesn’t it? I've tried and tried, but I can’t remember any details. Except that it had a strange handle—” She broke off, as if horror had stolen her voice.

  He felt the fear ripple through her from her slender shoulders to her thighs. “It will come,” he said with more assurance than he felt. He probably would have said anything, mouthed any lie at all, if he thought it would ease her fear. “Give it time. And at least now you've got something, a place to begin. Something to work with.”

  She nodded, accepting his crumb of comfort like a hungry child, and as a little of her tension dissipated, she rested her cheek against his chest. His heart throbbed hard against the soft pressure, and he dropped his chin, rubbing it against the dark silk of her hair.

  Murmuring, she responded with an answering nuzzle. He could feel her breath against his nipple, which he knew was tightening under the warm, delicate exhales. He took a deep breath, in which the scent of hothouse flowers and Laura’s peach perfume were hopelessly mixed.

  They stood that way for several seconds, or minutes... He no longer understood the normal passage of time. Oh, what were they doing? Were they mad? He was supposed to be comforting her, enfolding her in an undemanding haven, letting her rest there as he knew she needed to rest. He wasn’t supposed to be running his lips over her hair, teasing them into tingling awareness with the slow drag of silk. He wasn’t supposed to be massaging her back with these long, rhythmic strokes. She wasn’t supposed to be pressing herself tightly against him, so tightly that he could feel the soft warmth of her breast where her nightgown was still unbuttoned.

  Oh, madness—sweet, hot, flowering madness. She wasn’t supposed to be making these small, needy noises. He wasn’t supposed to let his hands slip down so far, down to where the slim taper of her waist flared out again into wonderfully female curves. He mustn’t. It was insane. It was like walking willingly into the dungeon and lying down on the rack. He couldn’t stand to go through this again. He couldn’t.

  But suddenly he was cupping her buttocks in both hands, tilting her against him. And she was not pulling away. Her breath was coming hard and fast against his chest. Her hands were hot on his bare back, her fingers opening and closing over the corded muscles beside his shoulder blades.

  “You're right, Drew,” she whispered into the hollow of his shoulder. “It is something to work with. Maybe—” Her voice caught. “Maybe it’s enough for me to— For us to—” She paused, then continued. “I mean, if you still wanted to—”

  Drew groaned softly. “If?” He closed his eyes against the wave of desire that swept through him. “If, Laura?”

  She shivered. He could feel the tiny bumps rising under his hands, skimming across her skin. Her hips shifted, her muscles tightening subtly where he touched her. Maybe, she had said. He felt as if he was sledding down a wild, steep hill, his heart racing with the sheer, exhilarating thrill of it. But he had no idea what lay at the bottom of the hill. Maybe.

  Oh, God, was maybe enough? Could he risk his sanity on maybe? He pressed her hips and rotated them slightly, forcing her to understand the power of his need. He heard her small gasp of shock, and his heart tightened. “You're still not sure, are you?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead she let her hands fall to where the waistband of his sweatpants hugged his hips. It was an act more brazen than any she’d ever—consciously—performed before. And yet there was a desperation about it, too, a sense that she pushed herself to do it.

  “Are you?” His voice was almost harsh. Why was he forcing the issue so? Why didn’t he just accept the sweetness she was trying to offer him?

  He shuddered as she ran her finger along the inside of his waistband. Because he couldn’t stand it if she was wrong, that was why. Because, though it would nearly kill him, he honestly would rather stop now than later, when all kinds of primitive instincts would be thrusting him forward. He had been civilized with Laura for so long. He simply didn’t know how much more civilization he had in him.

  “Laura, tell me the truth. I need to know. You're still not sure that you can do this, are you? You don’t know that you're not going to start crying again, crying and pushing me away.”

  Finally she lifted her head and met his gaze. Her eyes were blurred, full of confusion and pain. “No, I'm not sure.”

  “Then we have to stop right now.” His voice was flat and hard. “I think maybe it would drive me mad, Laura. I couldn’t answer for what I’d do if it turned out you were wrong.”

  She swallowed, dropping her gaze to his chest. “I know,” she said, her hand still plucking at his waistband nervously. “But that’s all right.”

  “You don’t understand.” Dear God, she was like a child playing next to a volcano. She had no idea. Blind with frustration, he shoved her pelvis up against him again, twice. Ruthlessly. “Damn it, Laura, listen to me. Really listen. I'm telling you I don’t know if I can stop myself anymore.”

  “I know.” She sounded oddly sad. “And I'm saying I don’t want you to.”

  Stunned, he released her in a peculiar, stilted slow motion.

  “Help me, Drew.” She put her hands on his chest, a heartbreaking, pleading gesture. “If it turns out I'm still afraid, I need you to help me get past it.”

  “How?” His voice was strained. “How?”

  “The same way you did this afternoon,” she said slowly, staring at the whorls of dark hair that curled around her fingers. “I want you to force me to face it. Force me to get through it.”

  Force her— His arms tightened as her meaning began to sink in. “You want me to—”

  “I just want you to get me through it.”

  He took a deep breath. “If you start to cry?”

  She shook her head. “Ignore me. It isn’t really me, anyway, Drew. It’s just some irrational, programmed reaction to something I can’t even remember.”

  His lips would barely move. “And if you try to stop me, to push me away?”

  She raised her face, and the torment in her eyes almost broke his heart. “You're much stronger than I am, Drew. Please. Help me to get free.”

  * * *

  IT WOULD NEVER come to that.

  As Drew carefully shut the door to the Louis XVI bedroom, he made that promise to himself again, just as he h
ad been doing all the way from the conservatory. Force? His gut clenched. It would never come to that.

  Why should it have to? He wasn’t a selfish, randy twenty-year old anymore, clumsily pushing a reluctant girlfriend beyond her comfort zone. Far from it. For the first time in a long time he felt no ambivalence about his hedonism these past few years. All his relationships had been monogamous while they lasted and unfailingly health-conscious. They posed no threat to Laura now. And while they had been an emotional wasteland, they had also been a constant and exotic sexual education.

  At least, he thought, he was ready for this ultimate test. He knew how to please a woman, and God willing, he could use that knowledge to help them now. Force her past her fear? Oh, no... If it took every ounce of energy he had, if it took until dawn broke on the sharp tip of Winterwalk’s tower, he would lift her past it. He would make her fly over the hurdle of her fear.

  Her face was pale in the moonlight that streamed through the arched windows. “I like this room,” she said, and the tremor in her voice was so well concealed that he might have missed it if he hadn’t been listening for it. She looked bravely lost, standing at the edge of the carpet, waiting. “I don’t think anyone ever used it while we lived here.”

  “That’s why I chose it.” He crossed to her and put his fingers under her chin. “No memories. No ghosts.”

  She tried to smile. “No gargoyles.”

  “Right. Just us.”

  He hoped that would be true. It was, for Winterwalk, a peaceful room. But for the first time he bitterly regretted giving Springfields to Stephanie. After Laura had left him, he hadn’t been able to bear living there, in the house to which he had once expected to bring his bride. At this moment he longed for his old bedroom, designed on graceful, classic lines, full of simple, masculine furniture and the subtle echoes of a happy life. This room, though the least Gothic bedroom at Winterwalk, was still slightly cloying, with its ornately carved woodwork, its heavy-figured damask walls, its gold-leafed ceiling friezes.