Imaginary Lover

by Sandra Chastain

  “Nothing Hattie Lanier did ever surprised me, Nick. Taking you in was probably one of the more normal things she did. At any rate, I didn’t expect Dusty to be here, but that simplifies what I came to tell you—if she actually is Dusty.”

  Nick gave a dry laugh. “After knowing Hattie, I don’t think there’s much doubt. Why should we expect her niece to be a normal, ordinary person?”

  “You’re right. And she needs to hear what I’m about to say. Would you mind asking her to come in?”

  Nick minded. He minded like hell, but the sooner she got back inside, the sooner the attorney would be finished and the sooner he could make his offer to buy Hattie’s house and get rid of them both.

  He pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the porch. Her backpack still lay on the floor by the swing. But there was no sign of Dusty. He’d stepped into the yard and started toward the gate when he felt her. Not her gaze, the connection was not that direct. It was more a silent awareness of anguish.

  He stopped, turning one way, then the other until he found the tree and noticed the boards nailed to the trunk. For all the time he’d lived here, he’d paid little attention to the clumsy structure nailed among the branches.

  He could see her through the bare limbs, her head down, her knees drawn up to her chest. From where he stood, he could feel her pain.

  Why had the knowledge of Hattie’s death hit her so hard? According to the lawyer, she hadn’t been home since she was a teenager. Hattie hadn’t even heard from her for two years or more.

  But she was grieving, and she was doing it silently and alone.

  He could understand that.

  “Excuse me, Dusty, is it?”

  She didn’t answer. Only the flinch of her shoulders told him that she had heard.

  “Hattie’s attorney wants you to come inside. He has some kind of information he wants to give us about Hattie.”

  “Can’t imagine what he has to say to me,” she said in a voice more dead than alive.

  “Same here, but for Hattie’s sake, I guess we ought to listen.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She raised her head and watched as he walked slowly back to the house, holding himself almost too erect, his steps measured, belying the barely perceptible limp. The sun caught the side of his face, focusing on the scar that ran from his hairline down the left side of his face.

  He wore scruffy running shoes, tan cotton trousers, and a red knit pullover shirt. As though he was aware of her scrutiny, he stopped when he reached the porch, looked back at the tree for a long minute, then picked up her backpack and went inside.

  Something had happened to him, something that left him scarred and secretive. How had he known Hattie? Surely he wasn’t one of those gigolos who wormed his way into the confidence of an older woman with the idea of taking what she had.

  No, Hattie didn’t have anything except the house. She’d always spent what she had or given it away. And she’d never seemed interested in men. Dusty couldn’t see Hattie taking a lover. She gave away pieces of herself to everybody along the way.

  Still, the part of Dusty that had once made her a good police officer now made her consider all the alternatives. Hattie had looked after Dusty; Dusty owed her a debt of gratitude. She’d listen to what the lawyer had to say, if for no other reason than to protect her aunt’s interests.

  Feeling old and very sad, Dusty climbed down from the tree where she’d once hidden to smoke cigarettes and drink a forbidden beer she had managed to snitch from the fridge. She brushed off her jeans and wiped the toes of her boots on the back of her pants as she went back inside.

  She didn’t know what Mr. Briefcase and Merlin were up to, but she knew that she was out of options. If this place was off-limits, she might have to live in that tree house.

  Hell, she’d known the worst. She’d lived on the streets once; she could do it again.

  But she didn’t want to live on the streets. Dusty O’Brian had a great yearning for the upstairs bedroom with the pink ruffled curtains and the white bookshelves stuffed with books and bears. If they were still there.

  Hattie wasn’t still there.

  Dusty had waited too long.

  Dusty came to her feet, pushing the chair back from the dining room table with a screech.

  “Whoa now, J.R., I think somebody is singing the wrong song here. I don’t want half ownership in this house. I don’t even know this man.”

  Mr. Reynolds laid down the papers he was reading from and looked at Dusty. “Miss O’Brian, you may certainly sign over your half of the house to Dr. Elliott, or you may sell it to whomever you wish. There is only one stipulation: you must donate some of your time to the ART Station to receive Hattie’s money. That includes her storytelling part of the upcoming A Tour of Southern Ghosts. Either way, one-half of this house is yours; the other half belongs to Dr. Elliott. Hattie was quite definite on that point.”

  “I’ll bet, with a little suggestion from the—doctor, did you say? What kind of doctor are you, anyway, a tree surgeon? Besides, Hattie didn’t have any money.”

  “Oh, but she did,” the attorney corrected. “Hattie always invested her money wisely, and through the years she has accumulated quite a large sum of money. She left it all to you, Miss O’Brian.”

  This time when the doorbell rang, the dark-eyed man she called Merlin opened it to admit a young woman wearing leotards, an oversized shirt, and a baseball cap. She hugged Nick Elliott, brushed the tears from her eyes, and moved into the room, followed by a neatly dressed man wearing a sport coat.

  “I can’t believe it,” the newcomer was saying. “Hattie has been such a big part of the ART Station for so long that I don’t know how we’ll get along without her.”

  “And the storytelling,” her companion said. “She’s always had the best spot, the one in the house. It won’t be the same.”

  The young woman looked up, taking in the attorney with his papers spread across the dining room table and Dusty, who was standing in the doorway, eyeing the newcomers with total disbelief.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Are we interrupting?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Nick said. “Hattie’s front door should have been a revolving one. This is Dusty O’Brian, Hattie’s niece.”

  The woman immediately came forward, hugging a shocked Dusty. “This is David Thomas, artistic director of the ART Station. And I’m Betty Hirt, educational director.”

  “Hattie was our biggest supporter,” David said quietly. “I didn’t know that she had a niece. Please accept our condolences.”

  Betty frowned. “You know, I seem to remember there was someone she was looking for. Didn’t she hire a private detective once?”

  “She’s been trying to locate Miss O’Brian for a number of years,” the attorney agreed. “I hadn’t heard that she’d been found.”

  “Neither had I,” Nick Elliott concurred.

  “Well, I think that’s about it,” Mr. Reynolds said, gathering his papers and replacing them in his briefcase. “I’ll leave it to the two of you to work out the details. Miss O’Brian, you can discuss your commitment to the ART Station with Betty and David. I would like you to stop by my office to verify your identify, just as a formality, you understand.”

  Dusty, still stunned by the proceedings, watched the man leave. Nick Elliott followed, spoke briefly to him, then closed the door and leaned against it.

  For a moment Dusty had the insane desire to laugh. They were like bookends, Merlin holding up one side of the room while she held up the other.

  “If you’re going to take Hattie’s place at the station, Miss O’Brian,” David said, “you need to come to rehearsal as soon as you feel up to it. You’ll need to learn your story.”

  This time Dusty did laugh. “Whoa now. What in God’s heaven makes you think that I have any intention of filling Hattie’s spot? I’ve been known to tell an occasional whopper, but I’ve never rehearsed it in advance.”


  “A Tour of Southern Ghosts,” David explained, “is one way we raise money for the ART Station. Every Halloween we tell ghost stories at the old Southern plantation.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to carry on without me.”

  “Maybe you’d better think about that, Dusty. Your refusal to help out could be expensive, ma’am,” Nick said in an excessively sweet voice that became more of a threat than a comment as he added, “if you intend to claim your inheritance.”

  “My inheritance? No way. I’m not telling any story, and I’m not claiming anything. I’m not looking for a lifetime commitment, just a place to stay for a few days, then I’m out of here.”

  “I don’t doubt that. By the way, how are you traveling, by motorcycle or broomstick?”

  The two ART Station employees sized up the impending confrontation and quickly made their exit, reminding Dusty at the last minute that rehearsal started at seven and they were ready to honor Hattie’s request that Dusty take her place, if she would agree.

  “I don’t know why you have to be so confrontational,” Nick said, refilling his coffee mug. “If you don’t want to live here, I’ll make arrangements to buy your half of the house, and you can leave.”

  Leave. That was exactly what Dusty wanted. But she couldn’t. She was stuck here for at least six months. Her probation transfer depended on it. “Damn! I can’t go.”

  “Why? I’m certainly not holding you. If you leave now, you’ll be out of Dodge before sundown.”

  “It isn’t that simple, Merlin. I can’t leave. I have to stay, whether I want to or not.”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. He couldn’t imagine this woman ever being forced to do anything she didn’t want to do. “Now I’m Merlin? Where’d that come from?”

  For a moment Dusty’s expression softened. “It’s just a fantasy game Aunt Hattie and I used to play. We wished for imaginary people. We always gave them names.”

  “This isn’t a game, Miss O’Brian. As for your not being able to leave, is it the money? I’ll have Reynolds send you whatever you have coming.”

  “Fine, you do that. I’ll be in the bedroom upstairs, the one with the pink curtains—if they’re still there.”

  “They are. But I don’t understand. You can still collect Hattie’s money, even if you live somewhere else.”

  “No, I have to stay here,” she said, leveling him with a fierce gaze. “The Florida State Bureau of Pardons and Parole has ruled that I must. If I don’t, I’ll have to go back to Florida, and I don’t ever intend to set foot in the state again.”

  It was Nick’s turn to be confused. “What does the Florida State Bureau of Pardons and Parole have to do with your staying here?”

  She looked at him, jutted out her chin, and answered. “Everything. I’m a police officer gone bad.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s not to understand, doctor? You’d better sleep light. Maybe even invest in a guard dog.”

  “After what happened last night, I believe that. What I’m still waiting to hear is why.”

  “Simple, Merlin. Your new roommate is an ex-con.”

  THREE

  “Are you really Hattie’s niece?”

  The resonant quality of his voice intrigued Dusty. It bonded into a physical connection forcing her to turn to face him, when what she wanted to do was follow the attorney into the street and demand that he take back Hattie’s bequest.

  No, she decided, not Hattie’s bequest, her absurd expectation. Dusty was still having trouble understanding her aunt’s logic. How could the woman possibly have known that Dusty would ever return? How could she have accumulated the wealth that old J.R. had dangled before Dusty?

  As for Dusty taking Hattie’s place as the guardian angel for the ART Station, that was the most impossible expectation of all.

  She realized the man standing quietly by the stairs was silently demanding her attention with the strength of a laser beam reaching out and probing her mind. The beam was invincible, compelling, forcing her to acknowledge his question.

  Dusty finally gave in to the demands of the dark-eyed man, and turned to face him. “No, as a matter of fact, I’m not Hattie’s niece. I’m not related at all. Are you really a doctor?”

  “Yes, or I was, a surgeon.” There was no outrage, no questions, simply the statement of a fact. The slow, even cadence of his speech was meant to suggest nonchalance, though she sensed reluctant curiosity beneath the outer shell.

  “And what are you doing here, making an extended house call?”

  “No. I don’t practice anymore. And I don’t make house calls, so even though we’re sharing the same quarters, don’t ask.”

  Before Dusty could stop herself, she responded with the old “Touch me and die, fella” look that had always protected her.

  Except this time it wasn’t working. The man didn’t back off. His injuries were physical; otherwise, he was as strong as she. And he was letting her know that without words.

  “So, Merlin, I’m an intruder. What are you really, Hattie’s flunky, or some con man who managed to wiggle into a lonely old woman’s life?”

  His mouth tightened slightly, signaling the anger that had transformed his already dark eyes into the inky blackness of a midnight storm.

  “Hattie was neither lonely nor in need of a flunky,” Nick answered. “She was a woman who gave far more than any person ever asked of her—and demanded little in return. She’d never expect more of you than you could deliver.”

  Dusty gave him a disbelieving look. “I don’t call telling ghost stories a little demand.”

  “And I don’t call it a big request in return for a fortune,” he said.

  “How did Hattie die, was she sick?” Dusty asked.

  “Cancer. Don’t worry, there are no other restrictions on you. I’m not sure that either of us is worthy of Hattie’s gifts. But at least I was here for her. Where were you?”

  “In jail,” she snapped, “but you’re right. I have no excuse for my behavior. I probably wouldn’t have been here if I’d been free.”

  Why she was in jail should have been his question, but it was up to her to provide that information. Instead, he asked the thing that really held his attention. “Why’d you leave in the first place?”

  “I was a hot-tempered little hellion who blew her chance with Hattie when I was fifteen. Since then I’ve had plenty of time to redeem myself and I didn’t. So think what you like, Merlin, I don’t give a—”

  He continued to stare at her as if he were looking past her glib retort and absorbing the pain of her confession.

  “Yes you do,” he said, coming toward her, “and it’s eating you alive. I know about guilt and pain and what it will do to you, and I can recognize it when I see it.”

  His index finger traced the curve of her cheek, rimming her lips and stopping at the indentation in her neck where her pulse was shimmying like an out-of-control hula dancer.

  For a long moment they stood facing each other, sharing the heated breath of two equals, each determined to weaken the other’s control. Her breath was coming in small pants, barely enough to expand her chest cavity. Only inches away his lips curled into a scowl. She thought he was going to swear.

  He didn’t.

  He simply let go and stepped back. “Why do you keep calling me Merlin?”

  “Hattie’s Merlin was a man of mystery like you,” she answered. “I never knew whether he was real or not. I always thought that he was one of Hattie’s creations.”

  “Creations?”

  “Isn’t that what we both are? Figments of Hattie’s imagination?”

  He dropped his gaze and considered her absurd question. “You’re right. I suppose both of us could have come from the dark side of Hattie’s world, the demons she tried to tame.”

  “Merlin was no demon,” Dusty corrected. “Merlin was a wizard. Hattie loved the idea of the mystery of his age-old wisdom and powers.”

  Dusty wasn’t prepared for the qui
ck smile on Nick’s face, but she wasn’t surprised at the speed with which it disappeared.

  “A wizard? That’s how you see me?”

  She didn’t answer his question directly. “So, you’re not a wizard. If you’re really a doctor, why are you hiding up there in Hattie’s attic?”

  “I told you, I don’t practice medicine anymore.”

  “Does that have something to do with your limp and the scar on your face?”

  “I don’t limp!”

  “And I’m Mary Poppins.”

  “Touché! Let’s get you settled in your room.” Nick picked up Dusty’s backpack and started up the stairs. “I have to go over to the plantation house and check some loose bricks on the tour route. My car’s at the station. Do you want to come along?”

  “Not in—” She swallowed her remark. The good doctor looked as if he were making an effort at holding up a white flag by issuing a genuine invitation. If they were going to have to share the house, at least temporarily, it behooved her to find a way to do it with the least amount of conflict.

  “I can’t,” she finally said. “I have to check in with the police chief. Part of my parole.”

  “The police station is nearby. I’ll come along.”

  “You’re sure you’re not worried about being seen with an ex-con?”

  He gave a dry laugh. “Not if you aren’t worried about being seen with a murderer.”

  After they picked up Nick’s car at the ART Station, they stopped by the office of the Chief of Police and found that he’d been notified of Dusty’s pending arrival. Arrangements were made for her to report to a probation officer in the county, and she was promised that the situation would be kept confidential.

  “Fat chance!” Dusty said as they drove away from the police department. “By nightfall every law enforcement officer in the county will know about the officer gone bad.”

  “So you’ll be famous. My guess is that the news that you’re Hattie’s heir will be bigger.”

  Dusty caught glimpses of the huge stone mountain for which the city was named. It was gray and cold looking, imposing its presence on the landscape like a solemn judge. She gave a little shiver, remembering the first time she’d seen it, the time Hattie had brought Dusty and her mother home.