What the Waves Bring

by Barbara Delinsky

  “No. Lose who?”

  He paused, then straightened, his gaze shifting from the road to the mirror and back. “No one, darlin’. We’re all right. That fog may just help us out after all.”

  “What are you talking about, Heath? You’re not making … any sense … . What does this have to do with your childhood?”

  “Shhh.” He calmed her as gently as he could. The car was traveling at a dangerous speed; he couldn’t divert much attention from the road. “Now, darlin’, I want you to relax and listen to every word I’m going to say.” Pulling the car abruptly to the side of the road, he stretched a hand before her body to prevent her from jarring forward as he stopped, then opened his door and ran to her side.

  In her befuddled state, the confusion was overwhelming. She felt Heath’s arms around her, the cold, wet air on her face, the movement of his body as he ran with her from the road.

  “Where … Heath … . What are you … doing … ?”

  His breath was uneven from running. “It’s all right, darlin’,” he gasped, ran a little farther, then came to a stop, kneeling down by the trunk of a shadblow tree. It was dark, so dark; how he’d ever been able to see, she didn’t know. Yet some sense had drawn him on. Now he knelt by her side, propping her against the bark. His fingers worked at the sleeves of his Windbreaker as he talked.

  “I want you to stay here, April. Do you understand me? I want you to wait. Wait for me here. Don’t move.”

  “But, Heath—”

  “No arguments this time, darlin’. There’s too much at stake and too much danger involved for you to come with me.”

  “Where are you …?” In her terror, she clutched at his arms, fearful for him, for her, for everything else she didn’t understand.

  “I’m going on to the house—”

  “But … why can’t I … go?”

  “I need to work quickly. You need to rest. Stay here. It’ll be safer.”

  “I don’t want to be safe!” she protested, as Heath hauled her forward and wrapped his jacket around her.

  “Keep this on and zipped. I’ll be back for you as soon as I can.”

  April felt herself sucked into helpless and fevered oblivion. Was this, too, an escape? “Please … don’t leave me …”

  In the dark, he cupped her face with his hands, large, strong, and firm. “If there were any other way, I’d take you on with me. But I can’t risk any more, April. Don’t you see? It’ll all be over soon. Please, just stay here. You can sleep now. Curl up and go to sleep until I come back for you.”

  “Heath … !” She called out a final time, but her voice was muffled against the damp fabric of his shirt as he tremblingly hugged her, then flung himself away, into the darkness, out of sight with two long strides. “Heath … !” Her voice, feeble at origin, was swallowed pathetically by the mist, which crowded in on her and sealed her into her own private hell. “Heath … !” she screamed, over and over again, hearing nothing in response, seeing nothing in response, knowing that she was alone.

  Her first impulse was to follow Heath. With great effort she stood, yet her knees buckled instantly and she collapsed back against the tree. Again, she cried out for him; again, her voice was absorbed by the mist, as ink by a blotter. Surely he had heard her; surely she would hear the car’s motor as it sped off. But, just as her sounds from within this cocoon were muffled and died, so sounds from without would be swallowed up.

  Fearfully, she looked about. There was nothing to see. Nothing! A tug of the Windbreaker brought it closer about her neck. His Windbreaker. Where was he now? Why had he left her? Everything was thick, heavy, black around her. She was in an endless space, with padded walls on all four sides of its infinity—and nary a sign of a door. There was simply an old gnarled rod at her spine, the trunk of the shadblow tree, to which she held convulsively.

  Sensory deprivation was the term; she was well familiar with it, though she had never before had cause to experience it. Now she could neither see nor hear. Her fingers delved into the damp grass beside her, separating the blades, savoring their touch. If reality had been elusive during the drive out from town, now it was a total enigma. For given the pitch black of the night and the density of the fog, her imagination ran rampant in compensation.

  Trembling from the cold, she pictured herself abandoned in the midst of winter’s chill. Brushing at the dampness that plastered wayward strands of hair to her forehead, cheeks, and neck, she awaited torrential downpours that were never to come. Amid the awesome silence, her heartbeat was like thunder, jolting her body in uneven spurts as her breath rasped loudly into the night. It seemed that the sound was a beacon, that its deafening roar would surely attract some passerby. Yet there would, of course, be no passerby on a night such as this.

  Head lolled back in defeat against the trunk of the tree, she closed her eyes for a moment. It was all the same—eyes open, eyes shut. The same blackness either way. Was this what the blind man knew? With a strangled sob, she forced a deep inhalation. In contrast to the utter absence of sight and sound, a wealth of smells greeted her in subtle comfort. There was dankness and musk, thick in a backdrop of sea-salt tang. Were those cranberries, from the bog? And autumn? And … and Heath? Her pulse jumped in anticipation, then sagged as, with understanding, she burrowed deeper into his Windbreaker. His Windbreaker. His smell. His warmth, warm no more. What was he doing? Where was he? When was he coming back?

  “Don’t leave me … here alone …” she sobbed against the back of her clenched fist. “Please … Heath …” Whether they were tears or the mist that moistened her cheeks, she neither knew nor cared. Her only thoughts were of heat and light and dry clothes … and her love.

  If only she could sleep. Hadn’t Heath ordered her to sleep? That would be the solution—to sleep away the night. With the day would come, if not Heath, then light, and with light, she might find her way home. But there was to be no such easy oblivion. Though sleep had hovered so close about her being such a short time ago, when she had helplessly dozed against Heath’s strong body, now it seemed impossible. Her eyes were wide open, as though propped by toothpicks. She was bone-weary and a mass of sensual confusion; yet, unbelievably, she couldn’t sleep.

  The time crept by with agonizing slowness, minute by minute, gathering into an hour, then two. April huddled into an ever-more compact ball at the foot of the tree. Her body shook unremittingly, in reaction both to the cold and to the course of events in which she found herself embroiled. The realization that the grogginess, the disorientation, the lethargy that had mysteriously seized her while at Jane’s was slowly wearing itself away was small consolation for it was replaced by a terror more real and exact than any she had ever known before. She conjured up images of demons and evils, and a Heath who had left her here to perish. She pondered the irony, the cruel twist of fate, that she should come from New York City, a reputed den of danger and crime, to Nantucket, the bastion of all that was safe and pure. But, what had she found here? She’d found a mystery more frightening than anything that years of life in the city had prepared her for.

  Think up, April. Think up. From somewhere in the blanketing mist came the order, filling her with determination. The positive—where was the positive? The moan of a distant foghorn sent a shudder through her, as she forced her mind to alertness. What had she found here in Nantucket? She had found a house that she loved and a community she had taken to. She had found people she trusted and an abundance of peace and solitude. Then she had found the storm. Or rather, the storm had found her. In its midst she’d found Heath, dragged him far from the surf to the warmth of her home. She had nursed him, cared for him, fallen in love with him. And she had given herself to him with utter happiness and selfless abandon.

  “Where are you, Heath?” she screamed in desperation. “Where are you?” But the silence smothered her cries, answering her with its eerie echo.

  Think up. Think of Heath and your love for him. Think of the safety of his arms and the passion you sh
ared. Memories of that passion sparked a flicker of warmth, deep within the far reaches of her soul. She may have found him helpless on the shore, but he had turned the tables quickly. With fine-tuned prowess, he had mastered her brilliantly, offering pride in her submission, fulfillment in her eager response. He had coaxed her, both physically and emotionally, to heights she had never experienced, never conceived of before. As she thought of the pinnacle of joy they had reached together, she moaned—then jumped in terror at the intrusive sound, only realizing moments later that it had come from her own lips. Biting the lower one to control its trembling, she leaned back against the tree once more, hugging her arms about her as though to lock in the pleasure of her thoughts.

  She was deeply in love with Heath. On that reminder, she tried once more to sleep. But her senses were alive now and strangely sharpened. Knowing nothing about him, save what he had brought with him to the house, she had fallen in love. What was it, she asked herself, as she pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face in their crook, that made him so lovable? He was bright, intelligent and quick. He was resourceful and independent, not one to let others wait on him. And he was handsome—oh, was he handsome!

  Her mind’s eye drank in the memory of the dark shock of his hair, the virile interplay of his features, the firmness of his lean body, the taut pull of skin over muscles, his towering, dominating height—and, suddenly, the tremor inside had deeper cause than simply the cold. She loved his mind and his body. Most of all she loved the way he held her—gentle and caring, eager to protect her and to give her pleasure. He made her feel wanted, needed, and loved. But … did he love her?

  As that question reverberated in the emptiness of the night, that emptiness spread into her, embedding itself in the pit of her stomach and working its way to every limb, every nerve cell. She felt tired and spent, yet she couldn’t sleep. He had brought her here, to be buried alive in the dark, dark mist. He had left her here, alone and cold, wet and frightened. How could he love her, and do such a thing?

  As time dragged slowly on toward what she dreamed to be midnight, her imaginings grew progressively bleak and increasingly wild. Heath didn’t love her; he had gone back to Jane! How simple it all seemed suddenly. He had left her here to return to his fiancee. But why here, out on the moors? It made no sense.

  With lucidity wafting intermittently came recollection of the talking Heath had done in the car. Slowly, bits and fragments returned. April had been groggy then and fighting sleep at every phrase. But he had spoken of the past; she was sure of it. He had spoken of his mother, his childhood, his family. He had remembered! He had remembered it all! The joy April felt was short-lived, as a vise seized her heart and closed in on it with excruciating pain. He had remembered everything … and then he had left her! That was how it had happened, her devastated mind insisted. For some reason she could not yet comprehend, he had abandoned her here, alone on the moors. He was back with Jane! She had lost him!

  Devastation became agony, agony despair, as April tried to accept what she felt certain to be the truth. Mindlessly, she stood, swayed for a moment until she got her footing, then stumbled forward. Her destination was as unknown as so much else of what she forced herself to endure. She only felt the need to move, to try to help herself now that she was alone—truly alone—once more. Groping her way over the gentle heathland, she slid on the dew-slicked grass and fell, only to haul herself up and struggle on. The demands of the blind terrain diverted her thoughts from those others that lurked just below the surface, darting out and spearing her anew each time she stopped.

  Where would she go? The house—as good a destination as any. He would be back in town. A tear dripped over her cheek and she blotted it with the back of her hand. Cursing her shoes, which conspired to slow her down, she wondered why she hadn’t worn her usual sneakers. With realization came more tears. Distraught, she threw herself forward, running, then stumbling, seeing nothing in the darkness. Where was the house? Which direction? There was no road, no signposts, no landmarks.

  If composure had always been second nature to her, it was now noticeably absent. April felt hurt and confused, tired and cold. She only knew that she had to keep moving, had to keep running. But her breath came in ragged rasps, intermingled with sobs over which she had no control. For what seemed an eternity of seconds, she stood still to steady her pulse. And then she heard it. It was her friend, her enemy. The ocean. It was the only sound that had penetrated the leaden fog; it was the only identifiable entity in her existence.

  Following its rhythmic beat, she headed toward it, pushing from emptiness, through emptiness, to something she could touch, feel, see, and hear. The ocean. She ran toward it as to an old friend, knowing that she’d found it for sure only when her feet made contact, throwing a shower of salt-spray onto her slacks. Backtracking to a drier spot, she allowed herself, finally, to stop, crumbling in a sodden heap onto the sand.

  Was it a comfort or not, this ocean that had, in the past month of her life in Nantucket, been her constant companion? It had been loyal and unquestioning, ever-present and true. It had also brought her Heath.

  “Heath … !” she cried aloud, repeating it in agonized moans as the surf lapped the shore indulgently. “Heath … !” Tears coursed down her face. He was gone. Heath was gone. There was only Evan. Harley Evan Addison. Back now with Jane Miller. And she was alone.

  Crawling back on the sand, she huddled beneath the rise of nature’s breakwater. Knees tucked tightly to her, she rocked in misery. There was nothing more to do but wait for dawn. Then she might return home, to pick up the pieces as though the past week had never happened. A dream. If only it had been a dream! Perhaps then it might not have hurt so!

  Her soft weeping blended with the tune of the waves, a primitive symphony that lulled her, slowly, reluctantly, gladly, to sleep. But, with sleep, came true dreams—and they were as painful as her wakeful thoughts. For Heath dominated them—Heath, who was hers no more. In his unreality, he taunted her, calling her name, beckoning, then turning, then approaching once more, as Heath faded and Evan emerged from the mist.

  “April! Wake up, darlin’.” Refusing to give in to his cruelty, she denied him, clinging to sleep, even as she felt herself lifted and carried. “We’re going home now,” he crooned. “It’s all over.”

  Was it dream or reality? She had to know. The voice—his voice—was so warm and loving. Was this further hoax? The brightness blinded her as she forced her eyelids open. Reflexively, she turned her head in toward the cover of his chest.

  “That’s it, darlin’. We’ll be home in no time. You’re freezing!”

  “Heath … ?” Her voice was a weak whisper, yet not remote, as it had been last night. “Heath … is it you?”

  “Now who else would spend hours looking for you, darlin’? Why didn’t you stay where I left you? If you hadn’t moved from there, I would have had you home long before now!” Through his gentle chiding, there was obvious relief and … and something else.

  “Heath?” She opened her eyes, suddenly finding strength. “Heath … I have to know. I had such dreams. Who are you … . What are … Why … Heath!” She’d built herself up to a tormented cry. “Heath! Tell me!”

  “When we get home!”

  “No! Now!”

  “April, don’t argue. You’re wet and cold. You need your strength to get warm.”

  Desperation, however, gave her strength—more strength than Heath had expected. With a frantic wriggle, she managed to dislodge herself from his hold, falling to the ground with Heath close behind. Her only goal was to put breathing distance between them, to make him understand what she needed to know. Rolling to her knees, she scampered on all fours, only to have her ankle seized, then her calf. Before she could understand what had happened, the length of her body was imprisoned by Heath’s. Deftly he released his bonds for an instant, rolling her onto her back, before lowering himself again.

  He was windblown and damp, nearly as much as she. As he loo
med above her, his hair black and full, falling roguishly above his eyes, those eyes dark and piercing, those features unyielding, she thought of that dark stranger she had rescued from the storm so long—was it only days?—ago. There was no drugged haze to dull her senses now. There was only Heath, and she loved him dearly.

  “Now,” he boomed sternly, “would you mind telling me where you were running to this time? And don’t go wide-eyed and teary on me!”

  She hadn’t realized she was crying until he’d mentioned it, yet there was nothing she could do to stop herself. Stiffening beneath him, she willed purpose into her damp bones, though her voice was a hoarse moan. “I have to know,” she gasped. “What is happening here? You left me—”

  His hands framed her face tenderly as he interrupted her. “To take care of some unfinished business. I would not have put you in any more danger than you already were. But it’s over. Everything has been taken care of.”

  “What’s over?” she shrieked with a sob.

  Long, strong fingers caressed the lines of her face, as though reveling in a newfound freedom. “I’ll tell you everything once we’re back in the house. Now.” A mischievous smile slanted one corner of his lips. “Are you ready to go willingly, or do I throw you over my shoulder—”

  “Heath! I can’t stand it! I must know—”

  “—that I love you,” he interrupted, and her breath caught, mid-sob, in her throat. “It’s all that matters, April. I love you.”

  As she lay captive beneath him, stunned and speechless, she knew. She saw it echoed in his face—warming his eyes, gentling the firm line of his lips, relaxing the angularity of his dark jaw. And she felt it—flowing through his body, reaching out forever to her. It was everything she would have dreamed—and more.

  “Now,” he growled softly, reading the message that had been in her eyes all along, “are you ready to come home?”