There. He’d said it. Rob was in love with her. Here was validation that she was still attractive and desirable. She should be swooning in his arms, if only from sheer gratitude at his proving Derek Durrell wrong.
Instead she heard herself saying in a too-sincere voice, “It’s not that I don’t want to love you, Rob. It’s…I’m not even formally divorced yet, you know. It’s not final for another little while. So I guess it still feels strange…sort of not quite right…I don’t know…”
He took her hand—her left hand—and stroked the ring finger. It still had a slight ridge from all those years of wearing Derek’s rings—the plain gold wedding band and modest diamond engagement ring that had been replaced every few years with something larger and more ostentatious. They were all in her jewelry box now, their icy glitter forever muffled in a small manila envelope under a tangle of chains and baubles she never wore. She would sell them and give the money to a women’s shelter.
“Is it Derek,” Rob asked, “or is it something else?”
“Something else?”
“Like—” He met her eyes then looked away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions like that. So when is your divorce final?”
“May first.” The date had been floating in the back of her mind, quiet but ever-present. After May she would be still be herself, and yet different.
“All right, Garland Durrell. I’ll behave myself and back off until May first. But after that date, you’re fair game. And I’ll have you in my sights.” He put his arms around her and pulled her close. “Assuming that you don’t tell me to get lost, it’s going to be an all-out campaign. Just so you know.”
Garland rested her forehead against his cheek. His arms felt strong and warm around her, and she could sense his desire, held in check for now but very much there, simmering below the surface. She so wanted to respond to him, to give him what he wanted, to want what he wanted. To love him. When Alasdair left, maybe she would.
Because surely Alasdair wouldn’t still be with her then. Most of the wounds on his body had closed, and the worst ones on his feet were healing rapidly. He and Conn wouldn’t stay with her forever, even if the thought of their leaving made her throat tight with sadness. They had their own lives to live.
“I understand,” she said.
Chapter 11
He had guessed they were looking for him. Now he was sure of it.
Alasdair sat chin in fist and watched the small group of seals swim back and forth in front of Garland’s house, just as they had for days. Were they seals or selkies or something else? Mahtahdou’s minions had been known to take on the shape of seals—his oldest brother had died when he mistook a group of Mahtahdou’s creatures for his own warrior.
But he didn’t dare step outside to have a closer look. If he left Garland’s house he would be unprotected. And if those were Mahtahdou’s creatures and not his folk…he shuddered and turned away, and hated himself for it. This was what he’d been reduced to: a cowering, craven shell of his former self. Torture and exhaustion and guilt had laid him low. While his body was almost healed, his spirit still languished. He needed to build it up again, to be a warrior again.
So why didn’t he take his courage in hand and show himself to the seals? Most likely they were his folk: it was daylight, which Mahtahdou’s creatures usually shunned. Were Ider and Dynas, his best fighters, among them? What would they do if he ran down the grass and onto the beach, splashing awkwardly into the water like a human rather than a true selkie?
No matter how healed his body was, he was still only half a selkie without his skin. Mahtahdou might as well hold his right arm hostage. How could he lead his people again without it?
His eyes swiveled from the window to Garland’s design wall. A pattern of squares and triangles, from deepest indigo to palest turquoise, glowed there: his quilt, the one she’d promised him. The pieces were not all sewn together but he could sense the power already in them, a raw, swirling energy. Was it just the illusion of curves that the different angles gave it or was there something else—something deeper? He stared at it in puzzlement for several minutes then shook his head. Not all the pieces were up yet and the pattern was incomplete. Storm at Sea, she’d called it. With a name like that, he had better be careful with it when it was done.
And he hoped that would be shortly because healed or whole, courageous or cowering, he had to leave. Soon.
He had responsibilities to his people, a family to avenge. And he faced another danger, a danger that had blue eyes and gentle, capable hands, a danger he wanted to make love to for hours till he was exhausted and drunk with their shared pleasure.
But what kind of life could they have together, coming from two different worlds? Would she even believe him if he told her what he was? His only possible proof—his skin—was in Mahtahdou’s hands, probably hanging like a trophy in his throne room.
Worse still, everyone he had ever loved had been destroyed by Mahtahdou. Father and Mother and his brothers— Finna—Conn, almost. He took a deep, ragged breath. He could not place Garland in danger just because he loved her. If she were to die at Mahtahdou’s hands because of him, it would kill him too.
No, it would be far better if he left, because there was another who looked on her with hunger in his soul. A hollow ache filled him as he remembered the sight of Garland in the healer’s arms but he ignored it. The healer would be a good mate for her, would love and care for—
The telephone rang, a new one that Garland had just put in the day before because she said it had a more pleasant sound. He thought it sounded just as bad as the old one but had nodded and agreed with her. He stared at it, then made up his mind and lifted the receiver. “Hello?” he said, just as he’d heard Garland do.
There was a pause. Then he heard the healer’s voice say, “Uh…is Garland there?”
Did thinking about a person cause them to call on the telephone? “No, she’s not. She went into town to have a mud bath, she said.” He had thought about suggesting she have one on the clamming flats right in front of her house, but maybe there was some human rule that required going elsewhere to do it.
“Into town for a mud bath? What the…oh. I think I know what she meant.” The healer chuckled, a much friendlier sound than his initial, rather suspicious tone of voice. “I’ll bet she’s at that new day spa that opened in the old Forrester house. Would you please ask her to call me? I was wondering if there was anything specific she wanted to do this weekend.”
Alasdair fought down the impulse to shout, “No, she can’t see you!” and throw the phone out the window. “I will tell her that you called,” he said instead.
“Don’t forget.” Was that a note of sarcasm in his voice?
“I won’t. Good-bye.” Alasdair went to put the receiver back in its cradle.
“Wait a minute. I want to talk to you.”
Alasdair paused. What could the healer want to talk to him about? “Yes?” he asked cautiously.
“How are you feeling? What about Conn? Stronger? Back to normal?”
“Conn is stronger. The wounds on my feet are closing well.”
“That’s great! So what do you think? Another week before you’re ready to rejoin the world?” The eagerness was unmistakable.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been hurt like this before.”
“I should hope not.” The healer chuckled again. The warmth was back in his voice, but it was a false warmth. Alasdair remembered how his father had sometimes sat with his eyes closed when judging quarrels, the better to listen for truth or falsehood in voices. Telephones did the eye-closing for you.
“It’s just that…well, don’t you think it’s time you thought about moving along and getting on with your life? And letting Garland get on with hers before she…before she regrets having you in her house?” The healer sounded almost painfully sincere.
“Wouldn’t she tell me if she were?”
“She might. But maybe she wouldn’t. Garland is…sometime
s I think she’s too nice for her own good. I don’t want to see her hurt because of it. I’ve come to care very deeply for her, and I can’t help feeling protective of her. You understand, I’m sure.”
Oh yes, he understood. He understood all too well. It was clear that the healer regarded him as a threat and wanted him gone. But he had walked in on Garland and the healer kissing, not the other way around. Why didn’t the healer feel more secure about his place in Garland’s affections?
“You don’t have to decide anything this minute,” the healer continued when Alasdair didn’t reply. “Just think about what I’ve said. When the time comes, I’ll be happy to help you settle elsewhere. Up closer to Boston, or anywhere else if there’s something you’d like to get away from on Cape Cod.”
There it was, the perfect escape. He could tell Garland the healer was helping him and Conn. Then, if they disappeared, maybe she would think that…but what did it matter what she thought? He would be gone.
“She’s been under a lot of stress recently,” the healer was saying. “Her divorce, and the accident—”
“What accident?” he interrupted.
“She didn’t tell you? See, that’s what I mean—she’s too nice for her own—”
“What accident?” Alasdair didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“Er…” For the first time the healer sounded unsure of himself. “It was the other day. She was hit by a car when she went to bring a quilt to her friend Kathy’s—nothing serious, obviously—she didn’t even call me when it first happened.”
Alasdair couldn’t help enjoying the hint of hurt in those last words. “Who did this to her?” he growled.
“An elderly lady—she suffered a heart attack and lost control of her car—she hit Garland, probably just a glancing blow, but still—”
A chill went down Alasdair’s spine.
“—Garland’s fine, obviously. Still, you see how stressful her life is right now—”
“Thank you,” he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could. “I will think about what you have said. And I will tell Garland that you called.” Before the healer could say anything else he pressed the button on the phone to turn it off and stared at it with a frown.
Why had Garland not told him about being struck by the car? Of course she had not been hurt. Not if she had one of her quilts with her. But who would have done such a thing to her? Why?
An old lady lost control of her car…she hit Garland… The words echoed in his mind like a frost-laden wind. He remembered the menacing, creeping fog that had tried to get into Garland’s house and couldn’t. Had Mahtahdou figured out whose house it was and guessed whom it might be sheltering? Blessed Lir, had he endangered her already?
He had hidden behind her long enough. She had given—healing, protection, nurturing for both him and his son—and he had taken. He looked across the room again at his quilt. Yet something else Garland was giving, something he had cold-bloodedly asked for. It was a wonder he wasn’t choked by his own shame.
If he could not give her his love in return for all she had given him, then he could at least make sure that she could live her life unmolested by Mahtahdou. Once he had left her, Mahtahdou would leave her and Mattaquason in peace.
* * *
Mermaids of Mattaquason was delightful. Garland liked the new day-spa’s pale green and aqua underwater-themed décor and the heated massaging pedicure chairs and the sea mineral facial. She was less delighted with the musty-tasting detoxifying seaweed tea that the spa technician gently bullied her into drinking quarts of—Kathy kept pouring hers into a large potted dracaena when no one was looking—and with the lecture about Rob that Kathy had decided to give her while they were immobilized in their foot baths.
“He’s crazy about you,” she said. “I’ve never seen anyone fall so hard.”
“And?”
“And?” mimicked Kathy. “And why, whenever we talk about him, don’t I see the least hint of a sparkle in your eyes? He’d be good for you, Garland. Why aren’t you giving him more of a chance?”
With some difficulty Garland kept her voice from being too defensive. “I am, Kathy. He and I have discussed it already. My divorce is final in May. I need till then to—I don’t know. Belong to myself again.”
Just then the spa technician came in with more tea and Kathy grumbled into silence. Garland was left in peace to think about what she’d just said. Was that what it was? Did she need to reclaim herself as Garland before she could think about letting anyone else lay claim to her?
She was still thinking about it while she drove home, pulled into the driveway and parked, and picked up the bag with the fish-shaped bath sponges she’d bought at the spa for Conn. She climbed out of the car and stopped in surprise. The front door was wide open.
Odd. She’d closed it when she’d left, hadn’t she? She must have—ever since all the vandalism had started she’d been ultra-careful about locking doors just in case. She went inside, shut the door, and called, “I’m home,” just as she always did. Usually Conn would come trotting out from wherever he’d holed up, usually with one of her collection of children’s picture books, and hug her hello then investigate any bags she might have brought in with her.
But no Conn appeared.
Instead, Alasdair came to the head of the stairs and carefully descended, hanging on to the banister as he always did. “The healer called on the telephone,” he said. There was an odd note in his voice that she couldn’t quite decipher. “He asked that you call him back.”
“Oh. Thank you for taking a message.” Alasdair hadn’t done that before. Maybe he was remembering how daily life worked. “Is Conn upstairs? I brought him something to play with in the tub.” She set her foot on the bottom stair.
“No—he is down here with the books.” He took a deep breath. “Garland, I have been thinking—”
“Conn? Yes, I’m listening, Alasdair—go on, what have you been thinking—Conn! Probably hiding, the little dickens. I guess somebody doesn’t want to see what I brought him,” she called in a louder voice.
“The healer told me that he could find a place for us to stay while I—while I get myself going again. So that we no longer must impose on you.”
What had Rob said to him on the phone? “Impose? Don’t be silly. You’re not an imposition. I like having you and Conn here.” She left the stair and went into the great room. “Conn, come out now. I have something for you.”
Alasdair followed. “Please, Garland. We are grateful for what you have done for us. But it is time for us to go.”
Garland stood still. She’d known it would happen sooner or later. And maybe it would be for the best if he left and she stopped pretending that he was hers. “I…I understand. You have your life to get on with,” she said carefully, looking out the sliding doors at the dried brown lawn that hadn’t yet wakened in this wet, chilly spring. She knew how it must feel.
He gripped her shoulder. “That’s not what I meant—gods, if only I could stay here with you…if you and I could…”
If only he could stay…a sudden rush of warmth went through her. “If we could what?” she asked eagerly, turning to him. As she did, a movement outside the sliding doors caught her eye.
A small figure was running up the lawn from the beach. Its short arms and legs pumped frantically, and something purple billowed behind it like a superhero’s cape: Conn, in her flannel shirt with the Compass Rose square over his clothes.
“What the…?” She reached for the nearest sliding door. “Did he tell you he was going out?” So that was why the front door had been open—Conn had evidently decided to go for a walk. If only he’d delayed his return another moment or two, until Alasdair had told her what it was he wished they could do. She unlocked and slid the door open a crack and turned back to him.
Alasdair was staring out at Conn with a look of deep horror on his face. For a moment she was sure he was about to collapse; then he pushed past her to the door and shoved it wide
.
As Conn approached the terrace she saw that he wore an expression almost identical to his father’s, terror and loathing mingled. He was filthy, bedaubed with blackish slime and muck as if he’d been rolling in something unspeakable left by the tide, and a long, livid scratch ran down one cheek. In his hand he clutched a bunch of half-opened daffodils.
Garland ran out onto the terrace. “Conn! What happened?”
He launched himself at her, sobbing incoherently. She gathered him close despite the disgusting, putrid-smelling ooze that covered him and kissed him. “It’s okay, honey. I’m here…you’re all ri—”
“Inside!” Alasdair barked from the doorway. “Get inside, now!”
Garland lifted Conn onto her hip and looked back at him. “He’s okay, Alasdair. What’s wrong?”
“Garland, come in. Now. Please.” Though his voice was calmer, he still wore that expression of fear.
“Come on, big boy,” she murmured. “How about a nice warm bath? What were you doing, wandering off without telling anyone?” Still muttering soothing nothings, she carried him inside.
Alasdair nearly slammed the door shut after them, locked it, and yanked the curtains across it. Only then did he turn to her and Conn. “Oganach,” he said softly, taking Conn from her. “Why did you go out there?”
Conn sniffled and hid his face, and shoved the flowers toward Garland.
“Thank you, Conn,” she said. “They’re beautiful.” They were also probably from the Luffords’ yard next door, but they were never around until June and wouldn’t notice. “Did you fall down and hurt yourself?”
Alasdair’s face tightened. “He should be cleaned. This—this filth will burn if left on the skin.”
Garland opened her mouth to ask him how he knew and where Conn had been to get it on him, but his expression made her change his mind. At least until Conn was scrubbed.
Skin Deep Page 15
