by Nora Roberts
there, and that lamp. He began to set them in his mind, the shape and dimensions, the tone and texture. So deep was his concentration that he didn't realize the image had changed until the woman crossed his vision.
She walked through the rooms, her hands clasped tightly together. A lovely woman, he noted. Smaller than
Kayleen, fuller at the breasts and hips, but with the same coloring. She wore her dark hair short, and it swung at her cheeks as she moved.
Compelled, he opened the window wider and heard her speak.
"Oh, baby, where are you? Why haven't you called? It's almost a week. Why can't we find you? Oh, Kayleen." She picked up a photograph from a table, pressed it to her. "Please be all right. Please be okay."
With the picture hugged to her heart, she dropped into a chair and began to weep.
Flynn slammed the window shut and turned away.
He would not be moved. He would not.
Time was almost up. In little more than twenty-four hours, the choice would be behind him. Behind them all.
He closed his mind to a mother's grief. But he wasn't fully able to close his heart.
His mood was edgy when he left the workroom. He meant to go outside, to walk it off. Perhaps to whistle up Dilis and ride it off. But he heard her singing.
He'd never heard her sing before. A pretty voice, he thought, but it was the happiness in it that drew him back to the kitchen.
She was stirring something on the stove, something in the big copper kettle that smelled beyond belief.
It had been a very long time since he'd come into a kitchen where cooking was being done. But he was nearly certain that was what had just happened. Since it was almost too marvelous to believe, he decided to make sure of it.
"Kayleen, what are you about there?"
"Oh!" Her spoon clattered, fell out of her hand and plopped into the pot. "Damn it, Flynn! You startled me. Now look at that, I've drowned the spoon in the sauce."
"Sauce?"
"I thought I'd make spaghetti. You have a very unusual collection of ingredients in your kitchen. Peanut butter, pickled herring, enough chocolate to make an entire elementary school hyper for a month. However, I managed to find plenty of herbs, and some lovely ripe tomatoes, so this seemed the safest bet. Plus you have ten pounds of spaghetti pasta."
"Kayleen, are you cooking for me?"
"I know it must seem silly, as you can snap up a five-star meal for yourself without breaking a sweat. But there's something to be said for home cooking. I'm a very good cook. I took lessons. Though I've never attempted to make sauce in quite such a pot, it should be fine."
"The pot's wrong?"
"Oh, well, I'd do better with my own cookware, but I think I've made do. You had plenty of fresh vegetables in your garden, so I—"
"Just give me a few moments, won't you? I'll need a bit of time."
And before she could answer, he was gone.
"Well." She shook her head and went back to trying to save the spoon.
She had everything under control again, had adjusted the heat to keep the sauce at low simmer, when a clatter behind her made her jolt. The spoon plopped back into the sauce.
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" She turned around, then stumbled back. There was a pile of pots and pans on the counter beside her.
"I replicated them," Flynn said with a grin. "Which took me a little longer, but I didn't want to argue with you about it. Then you might not feed me."
"My pots!" She fell on them with the enthusiasm of a mother for lost children.
More enthusiasm, Flynn realized as she chattered and held up each pan and lid to examine, than she'd shown for the jewels he'd given her.
Because they were hers. Something that belonged to her. Something from her world.
And his heart grew heavy.
"This is going to be good." She stacked the cookware neatly, selected the proper pot. "I know it must seem a waste of time and effort to you," she said as she transferred the sauce. "But cooking's a kind of art. It's certainly an occupation. I'm used to being busy. A few days of leisure is wonderful, but I'd go crazy after a while with nothing to do. Now I can cook."
While the sauce simmered in the twenty-first-century pot, she carried the ancient kettle to the sink to wash it. "And dazzle you with my brilliance," she added with a quick, laughing glance over her shoulder.
"You already dazzle me."
"Well, just wait. I was thinking, as I was putting all this together, that I could spend weeks, months, really, organizing around here. Not having a pattern is one thing, but having no order at all is another. You could use a catalogue system for your books. And some of the rooms are just piled with things. I don't imagine you even know what there is. You could use a listing of your art, and the antiques, your music. You have the most extensive collection of antique toys I've ever seen. When we have children…"
She trailed off, her hands fumbling in the soapy water. Children. Could they have children? What were the rules? Might she even now be pregnant? They'd done nothing to prevent conception. Or she hadn't, she thought, pressing her lips together.
How could she know what he might have done?
"Listen to me." She shook her hair back, briskly rinsed the pot. "Old habits. Lists and plans and procedures. The only plan we need right now is what sort of dressing I should make for the salad."
"Kayleen."
"No, no, this is my performance here. You'll just have to find something to do until curtain time." She heard the sorrow in his voice, the regret. And had her answers. "Everything should be ready in an hour. So, out."
She turned, smiling, shooing at him. But her voice was too thick.
"I'll go and tend to Dilis, then."
"Good, that's fine."
He left the room, waited. When the tear fell from her eye he brought it from her cheek into his palm. And watched it turn to ashes.
Chapter 9
He brought her flowers for the table, and they ate her meal with the candles glowing.
He touched her often, just a brash of fingers on the back of her hand. A dozen sensory memories stored for a endless time of longing.
He made her laugh, to hear the sound of it and store that as well. He asked her questions only to hear her voice, the rise and fall of it.
When the meal was done, he walked with her, to see how the moonlight shone in her hair.
Late into the night, he made love with her, as tenderly as he knew how. And knew it was for the last time.
When she slept, when he sent her deep into easy dreams, he was resolved, and he was content with what needed to be done.
She dreamed, but the dreams weren't easy ones. She was lost in the forest, swallowed by the mists that veiled the trees and smothered the path. Light shimmered through it, so drops of moisture glittered like jewels. Jewels that melted away at the touch of her hand, and left her nothing.
She could hear sounds—footsteps, voices, even music—but they seemed to come from underwater. Drowning sounds that never took substance. No matter how hard she tried to find the source, she could come no closer.
The shapes of trees were blurred, the color of the flowers deadened. When she tried to call out, her voice seemed to carry no farther than her own ears.
She began to run, afraid of being lost and being alone. She only had to find the way out. There was always a way out. And her way back to him. As panic gushed inside her, she tried to tear the mists away, ripping at them with her fingers, beating at them with her fists.
But her hands only passed through, and the curtain stayed whole.
Finally, through it, she saw the faint shadow of the house. The spear of its turrets, the sweep of its battlements were softened like wax in the thick air. She ran toward it, sobbing with relief. Then with joy as she saw him standing by the massive doors.
She ran to him now, her arms flung out to embrace, her lips curved for that welcoming kiss.
When her arms passed through him, she understood he was the mist.
And so was she.
She woke weeping and reaching out for him, but the bed beside her was cold and empty. She shivered, though the fire danced cheerfully to warm the room. A dream, just a dream. That was all. But she was cold, and she got out of bed to wrap herself in the thick blue robe.
Where was Flynn? she wondered. They always woke together, almost as if they were tied to each other's rhythms. She glanced out the windows as she walked toward the fire to warm her chilled hands. The sun was beaming and bright, which explained why Flynn hadn't been wrapped around her when she woke.
She'd slept away the morning.
Imagine that, she thought with a laugh. Slept away the morning, dreamed away the night. It was so unlike her.
So unlike her, she thought again as her hands stilled. Dreaming. She never remembered her dreams, not even in jumbled pieces. Yet this one she remembered exactly, in every detail, almost as though she'd lived it.
Because she was relaxed, she assured herself. Because her mind was relaxed and open. People were always saying how real dreams could be, weren't they? She'd never believed that until now.
If hers were going to be that frightening, that heartbreaking, she'd just as soon skip them.
But it was over, and it was a beautiful day. There were no mists blanketing the trees. The flowers were basking in the sunlight, their colors vibrant and true. The clouds that so often stacked themselves in layers over the Irish sky had cleared, leaving a deep and brilliant blue.
She would pick flowers and braid them into Dilis's mane. Flynn would give her another riding lesson. Later, perhaps she'd begin on the library. It would be fun to prowl through all the books. To explore them and arrange them.
She would not be obsessive about it. She wouldn't fall into that trap again. The chore would be one of pleasure rather than responsibility.
Throwing open the windows, she leaned out, breathed in the sweet air. "I've changed so much already," she murmured. "I like the person I'm becoming. I can be friends with her."
