Imaginary Lover

by Sandra Chastain

“She loved you and she helped you. That doesn’t sound like a very exciting relationship, Merlin.”

  “Relationships don’t have to be exciting to be successful, Dusty.”

  “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

  Nick stood and, barely limping now, walked toward the edge of the waters. He didn’t answer for a long time, and as Dusty’s eyes grew more accustomed to the moonlit darkness, she could see the stiff back he kept toward her.

  “Sorry, magic man, I didn’t mean to pry. Your relationship with your wife was personal.”

  “You’re right,” he finally said. “I didn’t love her. But she never stopped believing that I would. I didn’t think it mattered.”

  Dusty didn’t know what to say. All her troubles seemed insignificant in comparison. She only knew that if Nick had been hers, it would have mattered. She would have made it matter.

  The very thought of being married to Nick, of having his arms around her every night, of sleeping with him—she felt liquid heat boil up inside and fall to a spot at the junction of her thighs where it settled and simmered.

  Whoa, Dusty, this is not smart thinking. You have as much chance of being married to Merlin as you do of being a cop again.

  Knowing that was pure imagination, Dusty forced herself to a safer line of thought. She hadn’t meant to turn Nick back into the stone man, not when he was loosening up and coming close to being human. For the time being, they were still roommates, and she didn’t feel like walking back from wherever they were.

  “Nick,” she said, and moved down to where he was standing. “I’m sorry. If what you shared with your wife made her happy, you mustn’t keep blaming yourself if you didn’t feel the same.”

  He turned back to her.

  “But I was responsible, and the hell of it is that if the accident hadn’t happened, I would have gone on hurting her and she’d have let me.”

  “Yep. That sounds like love,” Dusty said, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Men always hurt the women who love them, and the women always let them.”

  “But I never loved her, Dusty. That’s what’s killing me.”

  “Did she know that for sure?”

  “I never told her. She thought I was so dedicated to saving lives that I was a poor husband. Then one day, when I was well established, I’d have time for her. I wouldn’t have.”

  “She never knew, Nick. Trust me. Women always create the life they want in their minds. If it isn’t really like that, they just wait until it is. We’re stubborn that way.”

  “Then you’re fools,” he snapped.

  “That too,” Dusty agreed. “Now, take me home, Merlin. I need my sleep if I’m going to create a fantasy tomorrow night when the real tour begins.”

  “Would you like to see my house?” he asked unexpectedly.

  She was surprised. “Ah, sure. I’d like to see it. If you want me to.”

  “We’ll go in the morning, if that suits you.”

  They returned to the car. But the mood was somber. The air seemed hot and heavy, and the stillness was overwhelming. Nick was struggling to understand how he came to confide in Dusty. Even more, he wondered how in hell he came to invite her to go to his house. The yard man cut the grass and the cleaning woman came by every week and dusted, but Nick never went back. He’d thought that he’d closed off the past. Now he was opening it up again.

  Dusty felt as if she’d been cut into fragments. There was the storyteller who had been coerced into taking Hattie’s place in a life that was drawing her in deeper and deeper. Then there was the little girl who was ready to reclaim her spot in the tree house. And finally there was the new woman carrying the seeds of the passion that Nick had planted deep inside her. She felt like one of those bulbs whose growth the nurserymen accelerated until it burst into bloom in the wrong season. She was changing, and the lines between the past and the future were blurring.

  By the time they reached the house, neither was capable of general conversation. Yet that was all they could allow, all they trusted from themselves.

  “Would you like coffee?” Dusty asked.

  “No coffee. I need to sleep at some point.”

  “Coffee keeps you awake?” she whispered.

  “No. I mean I don’t sleep soundly. I haven’t since Hattie died.”

  She couldn’t help asking, “Is it me? Am I interfering with your rest?”

  “Hell yes, but you could be kind and let me blame it on the coffee.”

  “I’m sorry,” she managed to choke out. “I’ll go to bed and leave you alone.”

  “Lock the door, Dusty.”

  “Why, am I in danger?”

  He swore. “One of us is.”

  She thought of something and stopped halfway up the steps. “You remember that dog I told you to get? You thought I was kidding.”

  Nick’s laugh was sardonic. In the hallway below, she could see the scar on his face, as if it were giving confirmation of his warning. He seemed even leaner, more predatory.

  “With my luck, wildcat, any dog I bought would be a werewolf in its other life, and I’d have to lock us both up every time there was a full moon.”

  Nick might have slept that night, but Dusty didn’t. She twisted and turned until watery smears of light splattered across the fading night sky.

  “It won’t work, child,” she could hear Hattie’s voice saying. “You can’t wish the bad things away. You have to cover them up with stardust.”

  She’d told Dusty that after her mother had died. And together they’d built an imaginary boat in which they’d placed her mother’s spirit. Then in a solemn ceremony in the backyard, they’d released the boat into the night sky, holding hands and chanting as they imagined its climb.

  “Now she’s free,” Hattie had said. “And she’s where she will never feel pain again, unless you cause it.”

  “Me?” Dusty had asked.

  “Of course. She’ll always be up there in the heavens, with the angels. But she can see you. If you need her, she’s there.”

  Their conversation came back to Dusty in the darkness as clearly as if it had happened the day before. And then she understood what she had to do. Hattie was still here, waiting. It was so simple. It explained why Dusty had been sent back. Why Nick was there.

  Hattie needed to be set free, to fly with the angels.

  When the time was right, she’d explain it to Nick.

  Dusty closed her eyes and slept.

  Across the hall Nick let out a long, troubled breath. Suddenly the house was peaceful, his jangled nerves seemed to smooth out and his eyelids grew heavy.

  In the morning he’d take Dusty to see his house. Once she saw, she’d understand why he had left. Then they’d talk about Hattie’s house and decide what to do.

  Tomorrow Dusty would tell her story before the first tour. She’d do well. She’d shown that when she’d pretended to faint. Or had she? Her pulse had been jumping all over the scale, though it could have been from excitement. Still, the scene had been realistic—too realistic. He was worried about the woman who had come to stand for desire in his life. There was not a second of his day that she wasn’t in his thoughts.

  Soon, he’d have to make a decision about assisting Bill in the surgery.

  Soon, he’d have to decide what in hell he was going to do about the wildcat that Hattie had somehow conjured up to bewitch him and break down the safe walls behind which he’d hidden himself.

  “Ah, Hattie, you’re the sorcerer, not me. You’ve cast a magic spell over this house, and I don’t know how to break it.”

  Downstairs the curly orange and black ribbon on the outside of the doorknob slipped to the floor. A quick, teasing wind swept across the front porch and carried the ribbon away, dipping and swaying, until finally it disappeared in the night sky.

  The night watchman patrolling the grounds of the plantation glanced up and saw the curly shadow moving across the sky.

  “Spooks!” he said in unease. “They always stir thi
ngs up when they start telling them stories out here. There’s some things folks just ought not to mess with.”

  “Tom Glavin, the Atlanta Braves pitcher, lives in this house,” Nick said as they drove down the street. “He’s a golfer, pretty good.”

  “And I guess there’s a golf course?”

  “Sure. That’s one of the measures of success, golf courses and tennis courts. Of course, each house has its own pool.”

  “You have a pool?” Dusty couldn’t keep the awe from her voice.

  “Of course. And a sauna and an exercise room. At least those rooms got used. The rest of the house seemed pretty empty.”

  So much for her surmising that he had used all his money to pay his hospital bills. As they drove into the garage and the automatic doors closed behind them, Dusty felt like the fool she’d said women often were.

  This was wealth such as she’d never experienced before. To someone like her, it would be like finding the genie in the magic lamp who granted three wishes. Dusty probably would have started with wealth as her first wish. A real lover would be the second. The third? That was harder, children perhaps. If Dusty owned the genie, she’d hold on to that last wish.

  The house wasn’t empty of furniture. It was decorated beautifully in shades of sand and burgundy with touches of blue to accent. Nick showed her the gleaming white kitchen, the low couches in the living room, the pickled oak furniture in the dining room, and, finally, the master bedroom.

  Dusty let out a deep sigh. “Wow! I’m impressed.” She wandered around the room, lifting the silver-framed pictures that had been arranged on the dressing table, across the built-in bookshelves, and on the night table. The woman smiling at her was short and blond, older than Dusty had expected. The expressions of the people told the truth.

  In the wedding picture the woman’s smile seemed hesitant but warm. A snapshot on the golf course where she and Nick were seated with another couple, caught her as she was looking at Nick. Her expression was less confident. And finally, the last picture was of a woman who knew pain and lived with it.

  “Lois?” she asked, holding up the group picture.

  “Yes. That was Lois. The other man is my partner, and that’s his wife.”

  “Lois looks as if she isn’t very comfortable with them. It would be hard to live the life of the rich and famous if you didn’t fit in. I could relate to that.”

  Nick walked to the window and opened the drapes. “It wasn’t Lois who didn’t fit in, Dusty. It was me. All this was her world, her life, her money. When we got married, I didn’t even have tuition money for the next quarter. She paid for it—and me.”

  “Is that what you brought me here for, to show me that you don’t deserve this? Well, I don’t buy that, Nick. I believe that when you get married, what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine. I’d never sign any premarital agreement, and I’d never marry anybody unless I planned to love him forever, no matter what. And I’ll bet that Lois felt the same way.”

  “But she’s the one who died. All this is mine now. And I feel like a thief.”

  Dusty was becoming angry and she wasn’t quite sure why, unless it was because they were discussing a woman in her own bedroom, as if she couldn’t hear. It was uncomfortable and Dusty couldn’t stop herself from whirling around and dashing down the stairs. She unlocked the glass doors leading out onto a patio overlooking the pool.

  For a long time she stood and stared at the water. The occasional breeze that swept around the house ruffled the water and made little waves that slapped the tiled sides of the pool.

  The last time she’d looked down at waves, she’d been ready to kill herself. But Hattie hadn’t let her. Somehow, from someplace deep in her mind, she’d heard Hattie urging her to come home. And she’d stepped back from the brink.

  “It’s too bad that it isn’t warmer,” Nick’s voice said from behind her. “We could go for a swim.”

  “Why? So you could wallow in recriminations again? Well, I don’t buy that, Nick Elliott. You and Lois lived here. This was your house. If you don’t feel comfortable with it, sell it. The only way you’ll get the hurt out of here is to fill it with stardust.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he answered. “I know you call me Merlin and I know you think that something magical is happening, but there’s no stardust here. It’s just smoke. The truth is, there is an overpowering sexual attraction between us, and that’s playing havoc with our psyches.”

  “You don’t believe in stardust, Merlin? Fine. Let’s go. I’ve seen enough of your shrine to guilt.”

  Nick followed her around the house and to the car. “Aw, come on, Dusty, you don’t believe in all this magic stuff. Only a few days ago you were ready to go to bed with me. I didn’t read that wrong, did I?”

  “No,” she admitted. “You didn’t read that wrong. I’m very attracted to you.”

  “And that didn’t have anything to do with wealth or lifestyles, did it? It was simply a man and a woman who wanted each other.”

  She walked around the pool and into a flower garden riotous with bronze and yellow mums. She leaned down and picked one. But there was no sweet scent. The flowers were like the house, beautiful but cold. She was delaying responding to Nick’s suggestion.

  He was wrong, and this was the wrong place to be. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it would be easier to talk here, where Lois’s touch acted as a governor on her emotions.

  “You’re wrong, Nick, about wealth and lifestyles. I could never feel comfortable in a place like this. It’s too perfect. And I’m not. I have too many warts to be a princess. But you could be a prince.”

  “I never wanted to be a prince. I just wanted to be a doctor. And I used Lois to become one.”

  “Yes, you did. Now you’re a doctor. Why aren’t you practicing?”

  His eyes darkened in the sunlight, taking on the harnessed fury of some caged wild animal. “I have my reasons.”

  She gave a dry laugh.

  “You know what’s so funny, Nick? I actually thought you might be poor. I thought I’d buy your half of the house so you’d have the money to get your life back together. Can you believe that? I was ready to give you money, the way Lois did. But you didn’t need my money, did you? You were turning down my help. Why?”

  “Because I’m a damned fool, I suppose.”

  “No, I think it’s because you’re still punishing yourself. Too bad. Maybe we’d both be better off if we’d made love and gotten past that hang-up. Having a conscience is hell!”

  “Thank you, Dr. Freud,” he said. “At least I’m seeing things clearly. You keep trying to pretend that your past is dead. You’re trying to cover up the attraction between us with magic as if giving lust a spiritual connotation makes everything different. You’re just blowing smoke. I still refuse to believe in magic.”

  “You do? Well, stick with me, Merlin. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to change your mind. I’m going to show you magic smoke and stardust too.”

  NINE

  Dusty had never been more nervous in her life. Facing the judge for sentencing hadn’t been as trying. She’d already been pronounced guilty at that point and nothing could be worse.

  Until now.

  Standing in the dressing room, she applied light makeup and looked at her face in the mirror. Tonight she had to face the tour with a story that was still unfinished. She’d promised Betty that she’d use one of the two endings that had been provided. But she hadn’t a clue which way she’d go. Not only that, but the woman looking back at her in the mirror seemed just as vague and distraught.

  All around Dusty were the other storytellers, wearing various kinds of period costumes appropriate to their story. She could see the crusty old sea captain, wearing his cap, the elegant older man wearing a black frock coat and wrinkled trousers, and the woman wearing a maroon cape that tied beneath the neck.

  Each of them had been issued a lantern which would be lit and used for movement through the dark grounds and as a p
rop at their site.

  Nick had left her at the dressing room and disappeared to check on the gazebo where a post had been reported to be unsteady. They were allowed to use the plantation in exchange for providing the art classes to the schools and the Children’s Center at the hospital, but Nick was responsible for making certain that no damage was done.

  In the mirror, Dusty saw Betty bounce into the room. “Hey, Dusty, look what I found. A frog for your hair.”

  She came toward Dusty, holding out a crocheted hair net.

  “Isn’t this great? It’s just like the picture.”

  Dusty felt a shiver race down her spine. “Where’d you find that?”

  “Some woman brought it by the Station. Said we might like to add it to our costume wardrobe. Sit down and let me put it on your hair.”

  Dusty laughed. “Sit down? In this hoop?”

  “Here.” Betty pulled a stool over to the mirror and lifted Dusty’s hoop. “Sit!”

  She complied, glad to be off her feet for a few minutes. Silently she watched as Betty fitted the net over her hair and pinned it in place. “Now all you have to do is add the pin, and you’re a dead ringer for the woman in the painting.”

  “Add what pin?”

  “The broach. I gave it to the wardrobe mistress this morning.”

  Dusty’s throat grew tight. “Did some mysterious woman suddenly appear with that too?”

  “No, the plantation curator had it all along. Whoever donated the painting also donated the broach. We’re just being allowed to borrow it for this tour. Do be careful. If anything happens to it, they’ll string me up in a heartbeat.”

  With the addition of the broach, the picture was complete. Even Betty was taken aback by Dusty all decked out in a costume that had suddenly come together with the unexpected addition of the jewelry.

  “Well, I’m off,” Betty said. “I have to check out the tour guides.” She started toward the door, then turned back to Dusty. “Don’t worry,” she said, giving Dusty a quick hug, “this will be a piece of cake. You’re truly special. I knew it that first night when you were on the stage at the Station.”