His soul.
In a moment of faceless dread, Sam considered confronting his brother on this, getting it out in the open before something really freaky happened. . . but Kelly was as taboo a topic as their mother.
And what had he felt when he turned to the sound of his name and saw Kelly Wheeler standing in the parking lot? How could he explain the rush of excitement that had coursed through his body with an almost sexual intensity? Wasn't he just a little afraid that if he talked to his brother about this, Peter would look into his eyes and know what Sam had felt?
"One order of chicken fingers," a waitress hollered, shattering his dark contemplations. "One burger, no onions, and two orders of fries."
"Got it," Sam mumbled, and slung the chicken strips into the fryer, wincing at the spit of old grease.
TWENTY-THREE
Partway through dialing Will's number, Kelly hung up the phone. It had been her intention to call him and cancel their date for tonight. That would make it two times in a row, but after today, holding hands and munching popcorn at the Cineplex seemed like the last thing she wanted to do. . .
Still, it beat moping around the house. Her conversation with Sam had breached a hive of restless ghosts, and with the north wind bulldozing its way across the lake and sleet machine-gunning the windows, she didn't think she could stand another night alone in this house.
Opting for a bath instead of a shower, Kelly settled into the bubble-heaped water with a tall glass of wine, Kenny Loggins crooning soothingly in the background. The heat, teamed with her intolerance for alcohol, soon had her feeling heady and loose, and by the time she climbed out of the tub she was giddy. After gliding into a mink-colored teddy, she tossed a match onto the kindling that was already stacked in the fireplace, and added a few birch logs. She had an hour and a half before Will's scheduled arrival, and planned to spend it unwinding. She settled into a mound of throw pillows on the rug in front of the fireplace, gazed into the sprite dance of flame. . . and dozed.
The Big Ben chime of the doorbell brought her back. She stood, glanced down the hallway, and saw Will peeking in through the sidelight. When he spotted her, still in her teddy, he looked quickly away.
"Oh, shit," Kelly mumbled. She grabbed her robe off the couch, threw it around her shoulders—and then made a decision.
She tossed the robe back on the couch. Then she went to the door and invited Will in.
"Dressed kind of light for the movies," Will said, his embarrassed attempt at nonchalance endearing.
"I could go get dressed," Kelly said, ignoring the clangor of alarms in her heart: This isn't your style, kiddo. "But there's a nice fire burning, and a freshly opened bottle of wine that'll just go to waste." She helped him off with his coat. "Besides, I've heard that Fatal Attraction is enough to put even the most stouthearted fellow off women."
Will shuffled his feet and grinned.
She led him down the hallway to the living room, aware that a generous chunk of her fanny was showing but no longer caring, and sat him on the floor by the fire. The lights were already low as she decanted the wine, and she prayed that Will couldn't read the uncertainty in her eyes. She felt desperate and alone, and wished for nothing more than a sweet outcome to the evening, a rescue for her ravaged heart. Maybe Will would be her ideal lover.
There was only one way to find out.
"He's nice, Kelly," she could hear Marti saying. "He'll be steady, you wait and see."
She sat beside him and snuggled. "Be good to me, Will," she murmured. "Please. . .”
Will set his wineglass aside. "I will," he promised, and embraced her.
His kisses were gentle, probing, unhurried. He smelled clean, a faint scent of soap on his skin. His touch aroused her, but she was tense, clutching him, her yearning more intricate than simple physical desire. She wanted his touch to erase her memory, to confront that part of her which insisted on pretending it was Peter's touch she was feeling and not someone else's. Not Will Chatam's. She wanted him to make himself real.
"Be good to me," she urged in breathy whispers.
And soon Will was fumbling for his belt, his own arousal cranked to a fever pitch by the unexpected depth of Kelly's need. Teeth clenched, she helped him skin off his jeans, her breath singing loudly in her nostrils. She felt hot, but it was not a good heat. It was the heat of a dog day afternoon, of sudden illness, of flesh held cruelly over fire. He dragged his V-neck over his head, and for a heartbeat Kelly wanted to cry out. Who was it behind that sweater, she wondered in that brief, faceless moment, his penis thrusting angrily against his briefs, sweat standing out on his belly?
Then her hand was inside his briefs, stroking him, kneading him. "Oh, Kelly," she heard him breathe. "Oh, babe." His hands were under her teddy now, finding her breasts. She could feel his heart, pounding the cage of his chest like a small, fierce animal trapped in a hollow wall.
With gentle strength, Will pressed her back into the pillows. He unfastened the crotch of her teddy and touched her, gently, knowingly, then lay down beside her, pressing warm kisses to her lips and neck. . . while his fingers described small, delicious circles down there, the pleasure of it gradually unhinging her mind, until she wanted this man inside her, Will, Will Chatam, oh, please. . .
It hurt when he entered her—it had been a long time—but the discomfort turned quickly to pleasure as Will moved smoothly and rhythmically above her.
"Will," she whispered in the crackling glow of the fire. "Look at me, Will. Open your eyes."
And they made love that way, face to face, their eyes open and almost unblinking, bathing in each other's gaze.
"Do you want me to go home tonight?"
They were still by the fireplace, still naked. The blaze had flamed down to a scatter of blushing coals.
"No," Kelly said, a trace of her earlier desperation creeping into her voice. She took his hand and met his eyes. "Will, I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For what happened here tonight."
"Really?" He sounded offended.
"No, that's not what I mean. I mean for the way I was. I don't usually come on like that. I'm not that. . . aggressive."
"Who is he?" Will asked.
"Who is who?" Kelly said, knowing what he meant but unprepared for his perceptiveness.
"You know who," Will said with compassion. "The guy who's got you by the heart."
Tell him. Get it out. Marti's voice. The voice of her own heart.
She did.
"I know it's been six years," Kelly said. "And until I got back to Sudbury, to my old school, I thought I had it all in perspective."
She'd told him the whole sad story, right from the outset, omitting nothing. The more she talked, the more she realized the importance of leveling with Will. He needed to know the truth.
"Does that mean you still love him?"
"That's what's got me puzzled," Kelly said. "I mean, I guess I'll always love him, his memory. We were very close." She chuckled nostalgically. "We were virgins together. Do you understand?" Will nodded. "But I don't believe I love him in the sense that you mean. I understand that it's over between him and me, that my future doesn't include him. And yet. . . it's weird. Driving through town or walking through the halls at school, I get these flashbacks, these incredible emotional flashbacks, and suddenly time loses its meaning and I'm not twenty-four anymore, I'm not a member of the staff, I'm seventeen, and I expect to see Peter come waltzing around the corner to meet me."
Tears shone in her eyes, and Will wrapped an arm around her. Grateful, Kelly snuggled closer.
"I want it to be over, Will. I want him out of my heart. And most times he is. But, Jesus, sometimes the memories sneak up on me"—she shuddered, thinking of her experience in the shower the night before—"and I can't control them. That's why I'm so glad you've been patient with me." She caressed Will's face. "You're a wonderful friend, Will, and I care for you very much. I know you like me, and I know it must be hard to sit here and listen to me
go on about another fella. . . but I'm glad you're letting me."
"Hey," Will said, returning her embrace. "I've got a pretty thick crust. I can tackle just about anything, as long as I know what it is. I appreciate your honesty, and I understand. When you care that deeply—and what's the point of caring if you don't go all the way?—it's a hundred times harder to go on when a disaster like this comes along and takes it all away." He kissed her. "I understand, babe, and if you let me, I'll help you. We can get through this together."
"Thanks, Will," Kelly said, feeling aroused again. "I care for you so much. And I'd really like you to stay with me tonight."
"I'll stay," Will said. "And if it's any consolation, I think I love you."
Smiling, Kelly stood. She had no response for that right now, and none seemed expected. "Give it time" was all she could say.
"That's one thing I've got plenty of," Will promised. He closed the fireplace doors and then stood.
Kelly led him upstairs to her bedroom. Where they made love again.
The lovemaking was fine, so fine that at two o'clock Kelly was still wide awake. There was a smile plastered to her face, and her whole body thrummed with forgotten excitement. Beside her, lying on his side, Will slept soundly, his well-muscled shoulders rising and falling in the beat of his dreams. She reached out to touch him, to waken him and tell him that she loved him, too, to thank him for reminding her of how easy loving should be. . . but she withdrew her hand. It was two in the morning and she had a gymnastics practice at seven. There'd be time enough tomorrow—and the next day and the day after that—to tell him how she felt about him, to show him. She had realized her feelings as they lay drowsing together after the second time. It had come to her all of a sudden, the way a forgotten name will sometimes leap to mind, as if an obstructing blanket had been whipped away. And there was nothing complex about it. It was a story as old as time. Will Chatam had stolen her heart. . . and she was glad. She was long overdue for a little happiness.
Lying beside him now, feeling his warmth and secure in his love, Kelly's past suddenly seemed more dreamlike than real. Will's gentle caring had obscured it, cast it in a welcome haze. For the first time in years she felt excited, alive. . .
But it was time to get some sleep.
Kelly climbed out of bed, freezing when Will stirred in reaction, then felt her way to the upstairs bathroom. On the top shelf of the medicine cabinet she found a dusty bottle of muscle relaxants a doctor had prescribed for her two years ago for a stitch she'd developed in her back. She'd taken only a few of them because they'd made her too dozy to function.
That was what she wanted now, something that would knock her flat, at least until the alarm went off; otherwise she'd be a wreck all day tomorrow, and Friday was her busiest day. She popped one of the tiny yellow pills, sent it highballing down with a gulp of cold water, then padded back into her room. Resisting the temptation to waken him, she snuggled in next to Will.
And drifted peacefully into slumber.
One of the really great things about leaving his body, Peter had discovered, was that he never seemed to need any sleep. While he was out of it, his body got all the rest it needed. The only time he suffered was when he ignored the signals his body sent to him. If he strayed too far or for too long—as he had on his first real flight, when he'd played bucking bronco with the fighter jet—his soulstring would fray, or a jabbing pain would develop in the front of his head. These, he'd come to realize, were warnings that it was time to turn back to his body. If he ignored these signals it would sometimes take days to achieve separation again. On one notable occasion—he'd decided to arrow straight up into the heavens and keep going until something radical happened—he ignored an ax-blow pain in his head and found himself suddenly. . . dissipating, wafting apart like a thin puff of smoke. His return that time had been terrifying, a twisting, scattering free-fall for what seemed like hours, and the suffocating fear that he was lost, that he would never get back to his body. He'd realized then how badly he needed his physical self. No matter how decrepit, it was his way station, the place he went for refueling. Without it. . . well, he hated to think. When he finally found his way back that day, he opened his eyes to see Dr. Lowe and a nurse hovering over him. The nurse, he was told later, had called Lowe in to pronounce him dead.
It had taken him a while tonight to get free. He had wanted to go back and see Kelly, watch her move, watch her sleep, but something in the wanting had thwarted him. He'd had to totally erase his thoughts before he could even begin to slip free. Before, his greatest fear had been of dying; now it was of never being able to escape his body again. Each time he tried, that fear lay on him like a stone.
He approached Kelly's place from the lake, riding the brisk north wind. November snow lay on the roof and surrounding fir trees in cheerful white heaps, which in the moonlight were luminescent. Her bedroom window faced east, and as he banked toward it, Peter saw a truck parked next to Kelly's red Subaru.
A cold suspicion stalled him in mid-flight, and for a moment Peter feared that jagged emotion might send him hurtling back to his body. But he steadied himself, deciding the truck was probably Marti's. It would be just like that cowgirl to own a four-by-four. It was coming on to Christmas, and Peter guessed they'd gotten drinking or something, perhaps while decorating the house—Kelly was a nut for Christmas baubles—and had lost track of time. Yeah, that was it. Marti was sleeping over.
He slipped through Kelly's bedroom window.
And when he saw the stranger in bed with her, one limp forearm draped over Kelly's naked hip, rage of such volcanic proportions slammed into him that for an instant he forgot his insubstantial form and flung himself at Will's sleeping shape, a jealous husband come home unexpectedly to discover the wife he had trusted in bed with another man. Fury twisted his unseen hands into killer's claws. He was going to stomp this fucker to death, gore out his guts, twist off his head and piss down his neck. . .
Then a curious thing happened. Darkness enveloped him—and he was back in his body, eyes closed, head heavy on the pillow. . . but now he could feel the bed beneath him, the warmth of the sheets against his skin.
And he could feel something else, something. . . asleep beside him. No, inside him.
He opened his eyes and then he understood.
He was in the stranger's body now, his own essence keenly alert, achieving through its presence some rudimentary degree of control. He could feel Will's sleeping psyche right next to him, a faintly pulsing warmth, and understood instinctively that if he trod lightly, did not jar his slumbering host. . .
His mind reeled.
Skin against skin, oh, it was like the sweetest intoxicant, the wine of the gods, and he could feel it, Kelly's warm hip beneath his pirated forearm, he could feel it all. . .
Joy and a fierce arousal doused Peter's rage like floodwaters rushing over a candle flame. Straining to recall the neural messages, he commanded the arm to pull back, to bring its fingers into range—and the stranger's left leg jerked an inch off the bed. After a moment, he tried again. . .
And now the arm moved, glorious motion, and he stroked Kelly's hip with his fingertips, the sensation reaching him through borrowed nerve endings. An almost painful engorgement made itself known to him, not as a faraway ache but as a throbbing scream of need, and with his free hand he reached down to feel, actually feel, the rigid spike of his arousal.
Inside him something stirred. . . It was him, whoever this heart-thieving bastard was, and Peter clubbed him with the full force of his initial fury, battered him beyond sleep into unconsciousness. The beating diminished the stranger somehow, shrinking his hold on his own body, and now Peter assumed total control.
He reached for Kelly again, snuggling closer. With a phantom touch he kissed the nape of her neck, but this time he felt it, too. Kelly moaned, stirred a little—and Peter lay still. He didn't want to waken her. Not yet. When she settled, his fingers found the waiting folds of her vulva; they were already mois
t, that single brush of his lips against her neck arousing her even in sleep. With a gentleness belying his desire, he stroked her center until it became as engorged as his own. . .
In a half-lit recess of her drugged and sleeping mind, Kelly Wheeler began to dream. It was the day of the accident. . . but the accident itself was still far away, a nightmare as yet undreamed. They were in her bedroom and Peter was touching her, awakening feelings that were frightening in their raw intensity. In the dream she rolled onto her back, as she had all those lonesome years ago, and drew Peter down on top of her, murmuring his name, slipping off on a warm erotic tide.
Peter could feel her responding, but with her eyes still closed and her muscles slack with sleep. She reached out limply to embrace him, slurred his name, and Peter shifted his pilfered body over hers, sliding its penis home. Kelly moaned, but still she did not awaken. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, smelling her sweetness, and began moving in a dreamy rhythm.
"Peter," she breathed in a drugged whisper. "Oh, God, Peter. . .”
Peter felt a climax already building and he slowed, wanting to savor it, unwilling to lose it all in a fevered adolescent rush. Balanced on an elbow, he took one of Kelly's breasts in his hand, circled the nipple with his tongue. . .
The sun streamed across them in warm parallel bars, a dream sun beaming through dream venetians, and she clutched his muscular back, drew him in as deep as her parts would allow. Her head tossed from side to side, and an insane kind of laughter built inside of her, the laughter of ecstasies unimagined, of a love so potent it threatened to fracture the mind.
(Peter. . . )
She was surfacing now, as restraint abandoned him, and he thrust with renewed vigor. Slick with sweat beneath him, Kelly thrust back. The heat between them flourished, geysered toward flashpoint. . . and as their juices mingled, Kelly opened her eyes.
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