Sleep No More

by Susan Crandall

  Abby knew her parents had closed that door in order to protect her and her sister as much as possible. Even Courtney had resorted to backdoor comments and innuendo. Any direct mention of the fire ceased to be.

  Before Courtney had arrived from New Mexico, Abby had broached the subject with her father. He’d squirmed in his chair as she’d poked and prodded his memory. In the end, she’d learned nothing new—and her father had been in tears.

  Could she put her sister through the same discomfort, just for her own selfish peace of mind?

  Courtney had gone through years of therapy; maybe somewhere along the way, she’d recovered memories just like Abby had under hypnosis.

  Abby took a long drink of wine and then asked, “What do you remember about the night of the fire?”

  She heard Courtney’s sharp intake of breath.

  Abby kept her eyes on the stars, as if looking at her sister would be that much more invasive, that much more hurtful.

  Courtney was silent for several minutes. Then, in a cold voice, she said, “You know I don’t like to talk about the fire.”

  “Yeah, well, neither do I, but I think it’s time we stopped acting like our tongues will fall out if we mention it. It’s time to stop ignoring and deal.” She turned to face her sister. Courtney’s arm rested on the arm of the Adirondack chair, her hand holding her wineglass by the stem.

  “Why are you asking this now?” Courtney asked, her voice a quiver in the darkness.

  Abby reached across the few inches between them and put her hand on her sister’s arm. She imagined she could feel the scars beneath the yarn of Courtney’s sweater. “I remembered some things under hypnosis recently. I was wondering if in any of your therapy sessions you remembered what happened. It’s time to let this memory bind us, not tear us apart.”

  Courtney kept her eyes averted and remained stone silent.

  Abby gave a sigh of disappointment and took her hand off her sister’s arm. She’d taken another sip of wine before she heard a sob catch in Court’s throat.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” Abby said. “I just… wondered.”

  It took a couple of false starts before Courtney managed to choke out, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry about what?”

  Courtney sniffled. Her voice wasn’t much more than a squeak when she said, “That you live all alone.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Abby said.

  After a moment, Courtney said, “Yes, it is.”

  “My sleepwalking has nothing to do with you. You’re two thousand miles away and I’m still doing it.”

  “You d-don’t un-un-understand. I should have told you a long time ago….” Courtney’s gaze moved to the night sky; Abby saw tear tracks on her cheeks in the moonlight.

  Abby’s skin prickled all over, waiting to hear what her sister had to say.

  “You didn’t start that fire.” Courtney turned to look at Abby. “I did.”

  Abby felt the world spin around her. It took a minute for her to find her voice. “You started it?” She shot to her feet. “You started it—and all of these years you let me and everyone else believe I did it!”

  Courtney got slowly to her feet. Her wineglass slid off the arm of the chair and shattered as it hit the paving stones of the patio. “I didn’t know at first, honest I didn’t. I didn’t remember anything about the fire until a few years later.”

  “A few years… like how many?” Abby struggled to keep from lashing out. She didn’t want Court clamming up. She wanted to hear it all.

  Courtney turned her back to Abby and crossed her arms over her chest. The night was still; it was easy to hear her hushed voice when she said, “I was nearly eleven before things began to come back to me. At first I thought they were just dreams. It was a long while before I remembered enough to put it all together. So it wasn’t like one day I just remembered and didn’t tell.”

  “But—”

  Courtney spun around and cut her off. “You always got to do everything. You were always perfect. I was always the baby. I hated it.”

  “Oh, Court….” Abby reached out, but her sister stepped backward and waved her off.

  “I snuck downstairs after everyone was asleep and lit the Sunday lamp. When I was reaching to turn down the wick, I knocked it over. The oil spilled and the fire spread so fast. I tried to put it out, but it kept getting worse. I was so scared, I ran and hid in the butler’s pantry. The fire seemed to follow me, like it was looking for my hiding place. My pajamas caught fire and I ran out through the kitchen.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us! My God, you let me go on believing I did this to you.” Abby gestured to the left side of Courtney’s face.

  “I didn’t know at first. I was only six!”

  Abby shook her head. If only Courtney had awakened their parents instead of hiding, both of their lives would have been so much different.

  Courtney added, “By the time I remembered it was long over. I was afraid everyone would think I’d lied in the beginning. They’d think I knew all along and just wanted someone else to take the blame.”

  “So you’ve spent every day since then making sure my guilty feelings kept everyone from talking about it… making sure I stayed feeling guilty.”

  “It wasn’t like that. It was just too late—”

  “God! Too late for what?”

  “Too late for me!” Courtney shouted. “Nothing was going to fix me. Maybe I wanted you to hurt, too. But when Dad called and told me about you nearly drowning… I thought… I thought I might never be able to make things right.”

  Anger tightened like suffocating bands around Abby’s chest. “And you think this makes things right?”

  “I know I’ve been selfish—”

  “Oh, you are way beyond selfish.” Abby turned and walked away, fury blurring everything except the ground immediately in front of her steps.

  An hour later, Abby stood on Jason’s front porch, ringing the doorbell. It was late, but his lights were still on.

  He turned on the porch light and then opened the door. Surprise registered on his face. “Abby? What’s wrong?”

  She stepped into his arms and buried her face on his shoulder. She hadn’t planned on crying. Then again, she hadn’t planned on coming here. She’d just started walking and her feet brought her to his door of their own accord.

  It wasn’t fair to him. Her appearance here was selfish. And yet, it was only right to tell him he’d been right about the fire. Problem was, now that she’d laid eyes on him, she couldn’t manage a coherent word.

  Her mind raced with unanswerable and disturbing questions. If Dad hadn’t been sick, would Court ever have come back? If she hadn’t been drunk would she have confessed the secret she’d guarded so carefully all of these years? God, Abby might never have known the truth. The entire serendipity of it all made her insides quiver and her palms sweat. Was life nothing more than a long string of coincidences set to topple like a line of dominoes?

  As Jason held her, gently rubbing her back and murmuring to her, the anxious quivering in her began to subside.

  At some point Abby heard the door close. He must have shoved it with his foot, because his hands stayed on her.

  Finally she gathered herself together and lifted her face. “Sorry. I didn’t know I was such a basket case.”

  His hazel eyes were clouded with concern. “What’s happened?”

  “Can I beg a cup of coffee?” Her buzz had worn off in the hour she’d been walking. But she was chilled to the bone, and it wasn’t entirely due to the cool temperature.

  He held her hand as he led her back to the kitchen and had her sit at the table. After setting a tissue box in front of her, he started a pot of coffee.

  “I’m giving you decaf,” he said. When she glanced up at him he added, “Your nighttime rules.”

  Once the coffee was brewing, he sat across from her and extended his hand across the table. She hesitated before she put hers into it. The instant their skin to
uched a sense of rightness and order settled over her. Holding Jason’s hand made her world feel just a little less random.

  His warm fingers closed around hers. He didn’t prod, he just waited until she was ready to talk.

  Swiping a tissue across her nose, she finally said, “You were right.”

  He half-smiled. “No doubt. But which thing are you talking about?”

  Abby couldn’t suppress her smile. “You’re so damn arrogant sometimes.”

  “I’m simply truthful and realistic,” he said, feigning affront.

  Suddenly, she couldn’t even imagine dealing with this and not having him to confide in.

  “I questioned Courtney… and I didn’t set the fire that destroyed our house. She did.”

  There was no surprise on his face. He nodded.

  “I just can’t believe she let me think I did it for all these years.” The thought still had her reeling.

  “Did she always know?”

  “She says not. She said she started remembering things when she was eleven.”

  “The same age you were when the fire occurred.”

  “Yeah. Do you think that had something to do with her memory kicking in?”

  “Hard to say. Trauma has a way of working to the surface like a festering splinter, no matter how deeply buried. But there’s no timetable.”

  Abby shook her head and blew out a long breath. “But she still kept it to herself. Why? Does she hate me that much?”

  “I’m sure Courtney’s emotions are more complex than simple hate. And her reasons will take some serious digging to figure out. Remember, you’re talking about a child, not an adult, and one that’s suffered serious trauma. From what you’ve told me, she had everyone jumping through hoops to make it up to her. That’s a lot to backpedal on.”

  “Okay, when she was a kid. But Jesus, she’s twenty-six years old.”

  “And now she told you.”

  Abby pulled her hand away and pressed her lips together. “You sound like you think she’s justified.”

  He got up and moved to stand behind her chair. He massaged her shoulders with magic fingers. “No. I’m just trying to make you see that once the misconception was out there, how hard it was for her to undo it. She needed to make sure everyone still believed, so she never let anyone forget it. The question is, now that you know, what are you going to do with the knowledge?”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you going to let it put the final nail in the coffin of your relationship with your sister? Are you going to hold onto the past, or are you going to look to the future? Think about the freedom she just handed you.”

  “Freedom? What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve ordered your entire life around the idea that your sleepwalking harmed others. Now you know it hasn’t. You’re finally free to live your life as you choose.”

  “I still sleepwalk.”

  “So do thousands and thousands of other normal people, living perfectly normal lives. We’ll adapt.”

  She looked up at him. “We?”

  “Now that you know your sleepwalking is as harmless as the next person’s… yes, we. You and me.”

  The enormity of that reality took her breath away. Could she dare hope for a normal life, a normal love?

  As she sat there, it settled upon her like a gentle mist. She supposed it was a sort of freedom. Freedom to do all of the things that she’d thought would forever be denied her. Freedom to weave her life into the fabric of others. So many good befores and afters.

  Jason went on, as if he felt she still needed convincing. “I’ll strip my room bare and install alarms on the doors and windows. I’ll set squeakers all over the floor. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you feel safe sleeping with me. All I’m asking is for a chance for us. Courtney’s truth has just freed you to take that chance.”

  She closed her eyes. The past had done so much damage already.

  “I get it.” She sighed. “But can’t I just wallow in self-pity and indignation for one night?”

  He kissed the top of her head. “I think you’ve earned that right.”

  After pouring her coffee and adding cream, he set it in front of her. She looked at it for a minute without comment.

  “Did I get it wrong?”

  With a sigh, she said, “I really only wanted it to warm up.” She stood and put her arms around his neck. “But there’s a much better way to get rid of this chill.”

  “I’d be obliged to help in any way I can,” he said with that grin that set off the bubble machine inside her heart. “And now that you know you’re not nearly as dangerous as you’d thought, I plan to keep you until morning.”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready—”

  “Sometimes you just have to close your eyes and take a leap of faith, baby. I promise to catch you when you fall.”

  “I have no doubt that you will.” She kissed him, and the bone-deep chill that had enveloped her began to fade.

  THE DISH

  Where authors give you the inside scoop!

  From the desk of Susan Crandall

  Dear Reader,

  After a good friend of mine finished reading one of my suspense novels, she asked my husband how he could sleep next to me at night, knowing how my mind works. After i’d given her a good dose of stink-eye, I really started thinking. Not about how dangerous it is for my dear husband—although that could probably be debated. Many of us do it every night without pause, but think about how much trust it takes between two people to fall into innocent, blissful, and completely defenseless sleep next to that other person.

  But more important to this book is the question: When in our lives are we more vulnerable than when we’re sleeping? I mean, it starts when we’re children with the monster in the closet or the bogeyman under the bed. And for sleepwalkers, that vulnerability multiplies exponentially; their fears are real and well-founded, not imaginary.

  Think about it. You go to bed. Fall asleep… and never know what you might do during those sleeping hours. Eat everything in your refrigerator? Leave the house? Set a fire? It would be horrifying. Even worse, you will have absolutely no recollection of your actions.

  As they say, “From tiny acorns mighty oaks do grow.” The disturbing vulnerability induced by sleepwalking was the seed that grew into SLEEP NO MORE.

  As for my husband… the poor man continues to slumber innocently next to me while my mind buzzes with things to keep the rest of you awake at night.

  Please visit my Web site, www.susancrandall.net, for updates and extras you won’t find between the covers.

  Yours,

  From the desk of Sherrill Bodine

  Darling Reader,

  You know I can’t resist sharing delicious secrets about some of Chicago’s best stories!

  When I discovered that my friend, the curator of costumes at the history museum, was poisoned by a black Dior evening gown (don’t worry—he’s perfectly well!) and that it happened at a top secret fall-out shelter that houses some of the most treasured gowns in Chicago’s history, I knew I had to tell the tale in A BLACK TIE AFFAIR.

  After all, what could be more irresistible than a time-warp fantasy place that houses row after row of priceless gowns that were once worn by Bertha Palmer, the real-life legendary leader of Chicago’s social scene?

  For those of you who may not be familiar with her, Bertha leveraged her social standing and family fortune to improve lives and to champion women’s rights. So I thought, how perfect it would be if her gowns helped the women of Chicago once again, and one woman in particular!

  It wasn’t long before my heroine, Athena Smith, was born. I gave her two fabulous sisters who are just as devoted to fashion as Athena is—and, of course, as I am—and I determined that a couture gown would change her life forever. One of Bertha’s gowns would poison Athena, just as that Dior had poisoned my friend, and that would throw her back into the arms of her first love, notorious bachelor Drew Clayworth. Of c
ourse, that’s just the tip of the iceberg of this story because, as we all know, the course of true love never does run smooth.

  Find out what other surprises and tributes to my beloved Chicago I have in store for you in A BLACK TIE AFFAIR. And never forget that I love giving you a peek beneath society’s glitter into its heart.

  Please tell me your secrets when you visit me at www.sherrillbodine.com.

  XO

  From the desk of Amanda Scott

  Dear Reader,

  What sort of conflict between the heads of two powerful Scottish clans might have persuaded Robert Maxwell of Trailinghail to abduct Lady Mairi Dunwythie of Annandale, the heiress daughter of a baron who defied certain demands made by Maxwell that he believed were unwarranted? Next, having abducted the lady, what does Robert do when Lord Dunwythie still refuses to submit? And why on earth does Mairi, abducted and imprisoned by Robert, not only fall in love with him but later—long after she is safe and a powerful baroness in her own right—decide that she wants to marry him?

  These are just a few of the challenging questions that faced me when I accepted an invitation to consider writing the “true” fourteenth-century story of Mairi Dunwythie and Robert Maxwell—now titled SEDUCED BY A ROGUE.

  The invitation also came in the form of a question—a much simpler one: Would I be interested in the story of a woman who had nearly begun a clan war?

  Since authors are always looking for new material, I promptly answered yes.

  A friend had found an unpublished manuscript, dated April 16, 1544, and written in broad Scotch by “Lady Maxwell.” Broad Scotch is a language I do not know.