But he was all too aware that it was only a pretense, that the shadows would darken her eyes again and make her face seem pale and frightened.
“Come see the tree,” she urged, straightening up, a child again, all bright eyes and sparkling personality.
He half flipped her in his hands, catching her as he spun her around.
She chuckled, and his heart swelled at the natural sound.
“Lead the way,” he said, grinning as he propelled her toward the living room.
She stopped just inside the room so abruptly that he ran into her, nearly pitching her forward. He caught her and held him back against him, much as he had in Taylor’s kitchen what seemed like months ago, but was actually only some six or seven hours earlier. But he wasn’t keeping her from flight this time, no arms serving as steel bands to still her too rapidly racing heart, her flight. This time his hands easily, naturally sought her curves and held her loosely to him. Molding her, loving her.
She waved her hand at the miraculously transformed living room.
All boxes were gone, the tree was fully trimmed and she’d even streamed some garland from the mantelpiece and lit several red-and-green candles. The coffee table had been cleared of the magazines and papers and now held a Christmas tablecloth of white and gold and two small star-shaped candles softly glowing. Bing Crosby’s honeyed voice drifted from the stereo speakers, further weaving the Christmas spell.
He knew there was no possible way she’d used all the decorations in the boxes, but was intrigued and impressed with those she’d selected. All of the decorations on the tree and those few she’d set on the mantel or in the bookshelf carried the same theme, all homemade, each lovingly created by someone they both knew.
“It’s beautiful, Allison,” he said, stunned by the truth of it, awed by her uncanny gift to him. Of all his Christmas treasures, she’d unerring chosen his favorites. It was as if she’d gotten into the deepest recess of his heart and pulled the knowledge from him and set it free.
He’d set out to give her a day, a Christmas to make up for those she’d missed, for the one she’d spent in the hospital. He’d wanted to take her mind off all that troubled her, to love her, to let her have a single day of respite from worry. And instead, she’d turned the tables on him and given him a present of stunning magnitude: her acknowledgment.
He tilted her head back and slowly kissed her, amazed by the depth of his love for her, fearing for himself when this lovely day was over. If he lost her now, he would be lost himself.
Hating the February afternoon icy cold sleet pelting him from the south, pressed against the back wall of the stud’s home, the man calling himself Quentin squinted his eyes against the spittle of ice that had come in suddenly in that way Allison had told him Panhandle winter storms would do. He struggled to hear what was happening inside the country stud’s house.
Incredibly, making him feel disoriented and off balance, all he could hear were Christmas carols being loudly played on a stereo. He didn’t know who was singing, but the voice conjured up vague images of old black-and-white movies and the sight of his full-color drunken mother sprawled on the sofa.
He shook his head and concentrated on hearing still more. He didn’t know why they would be inside the house playing Christmas carols. It made no sense. And things that made no sense troubled him. Gnawed at him.
Just as Allison gnawed at him.
He reached a hand to the window, fully intending to test its flexibility, but a low growl sounded behind him. Turning his head very slowly, he saw a large German shepherd peering out of the opened but thankfully screened window in the country stud’s pitiful little clinic.
The same dog that had growled at him when he’d taken the pentobarbital from the shelves of the stud’s clinic. But the creature had been inside a cage then, not roaming loose.
Now the animal growled softly, not menacing yet, but he suspected it might turn that way if he did anything other than simply leave. Slowly. Carefully.
The dog chuffed, then resumed the low snarl. He removed his hand from the vicinity of the window. The growls ceased. He stretched it back, the snarling resumed.
He stepped away from the wall, and the shepherd gave a sharp bark.
The dog was another problem he’d have to take care of, he thought as he hunched into the wind and quickly crossed back into the Hampton field closest to the clinic. He’d suggested they till that particular field for the week.
He was a good employee. He did more than his share. That was the way to get ahead in the world: do more than your share. His father had taught him that before he’d gone. Abandoning him. Forgetting him as completely as his mother had done in her peculiar way.
And as thoroughly as Allison had managed to do.
Why were they listening to Christmas music?
He shook his head. He would have to think about it. He would have to think about a lot of things. This wasn’t a game, as Allison seemed to think. This was deadly serious.
He hunched tighter against the icy sleet and followed the shinnery, the scratchy scrub oak that comprised the north end of the Hampton field. He chuckled a little at the word. Like the town of Almost itself, the word didn’t exist outside this small pocket of the world.
Allison had told him that, too. In between her longings for the country stud. His smile faded abruptly.
The following day was Sunday. No one in this flea-bitten town would be working. All would be still and quiet according to God’s rules. And those that didn’t obediently trot off to one of the Almost churches would be hiding inside their homes, keeping out of the storm.
Except him, of course. He would have a lot to do.
A dog was a simple matter. A little tricky maybe, but simple. Allison and her stud weren’t quite as easy. But certainly not impossible.
Why, nothing was impossible for him when it came to thinking of Allison. Nothing at all.
Allison thought no Christmas day had ever been as perfect as this one day in late February. Even the weather had conspired with Chas and produced snow and sleet.
The boys were all with Carolyn, safe and warm; the animals in the clinic were inside and needing no tending until late evening. The food had been delicious, and the music and decorated tree a feast for ears and eyes.
And there was Chas. Sexy, loving, as down-to-earth as a man could get and so filled with surprises. In many ways, on this day, during the hours they’d spent together, he’d given her back a slice of her early womanhood, those days when she’d been carefree, daring, even childish.
But somehow, during the years, he’d remained exactly what he was, the country vet, the large, quiet man with the biggest heart in the world. He hadn’t referred to the heated words they’d exchanged in the clinic earlier, nor had he repeated the words of love he’d spoken then.
In fact, he hadn’t once said a single thing to make her feel uncomfortable or worried. No mention of the possible danger that waited outside his house for her, no reference to her fugues or time lapses.
She’d never felt so at home or so nurtured anywhere on earth.
And this, from the man who had so thoroughly devastated her that she’d truly believed back then that she could not survive without him.
He’d granted her this one day, an unmeasured, unstructured day to rest, to recapture a hold on her self, her emotions. Her life. And he’d done so, knowing her confusion about him, about the past and present, the dreadful uncertainty of the future.
Watching him as he moved about his house, covertly studying him as he talked or swayed with the music or nibbled at the treats he’d prepared, she told herself she was simply accepting the day as the gift he’d intended. But she knew, down deep inside her somewhere, was the clear feeling that he somehow owed her this.
And that this one day together, pretending love, pretending all was rosy, this one day was all they would ever have.
The phone had rung about four o’clock, and even that interruption seemed in keeping with the
tenor of Christmas. Chas had answered it while keeping his smiling eyes fixed on her. After the initial chitchat endemic to the Panhandle, he chuckled a little and said, “No... she’s fine. She’s right here. You want to talk to her?”
Allison shook her head. She didn’t care who it was, she didn’t want any outside influence impinging on the perfection of the day. She needn’t have worried, whoever it was had only been making certain she was safe.
“Yeah. I’m going to keep her here tonight.”
Incredibly, his face tinged red and he looked away from her.
“But that reminds me,” he said, “Would you do me a favor, Sammie Jo, and spread the word that if anyone sees a stranger in town they should call me immediately?”
He turned away from her somewhat and shook his head as if Sammie Jo could see him. “I should have realized the boys would tell Carolyn and Pete about last night. And Carolyn would mention it to you.... Yeah. I think he probably followed her out here from New York.... Right. A stalker type.”
Allison felt a chill work down her spine. No matter how perfect the day, danger still lurked out there in the gloomy afternoon. Somewhere. From someone.
She glanced at the thick drawn curtains. Moments before, she’d been grateful they were closed, blanking out the world, keeping her safe inside. Now they seemed to be hiding dangers that might be creeping up on her. If she pulled them back now, would she see that dreadful disembodied hand, or worse... would she finally see her tormentor?
“Don’t worry. She’s safe...I promise.... I’ll fill you in tomorrow.... Right now? We’re having Christmas.” He chuckled again and moved back within smiling distance.
He hung up after farewells and slipped the cordless telephone onto its cradle without looking down. He never broke his linked gaze with her. “Sammie Jo wanted to know if I had mistletoe.”
“And do you?” Allison said, her heart starting to beat in that rapid, thready way she experienced every time he looked at her with just that glint in his warm brown eyes.
“I’ve got a lot more than mistletoe,” he said, slowly making his way across the living room. He stopped inches from her, close enough that she could feel the warmth emanating from him, the want rising between them.
Her mouth was suddenly dry, her breathing ragged. She’d believed that the passion was surely spent, that all longings had been answered. She’d been wrong. One look from those depthless brown eyes and she was on fire again, the dangers outside the house forgotten, the past well laid to its uneasy rest. All that mattered was this day, this moment. This man. And her one holiday out of time with him.
His kiss was all the sweeter the second time. And his touch all the more tantalizing because knowledge and familiarity lent it a tenderness that their mutual passion had swallowed before.
But in the end, their second union carried even greater intensity than the first.
Watching him now, in the darkened living room, studying him as closely as he studied the flames in the fireplace, she wanted to cling to the magic of the day, to the intimacy that seemed to spring so effortlessly between them.
But with a sense of a woman putting away her girlhood toys, a resigned acceptance of adult needs and demands controlling her actions, she knew the magic day must come to a close, that all the passion in the world couldn’t stern the need for words.
As if reading her mind, he sighed a little and closed his eyes. “Allison?”
“Yes?”
“We have to talk.”
“I know,” she said. But she would rather have run outside in the ice storm dressed in nothing but his shirt.
“Not about what’s going on with you now. About the past.”
She’d known that’s what he meant, but she shook her head anyway. “No. That’s gone.”
Still not looking at her, he said, “The past is never gone, Allison. It can fade from memory, it can be dulled with time, but it’s never gone. It’s part of us. And we have a past together, however badly things might have gone awry.”
Awry, she thought. A good wood. Short, descriptive, to the point. And wholly lacking in depth. A person taking the wrong road to a neighbor’s house goes awry. A Tinkertoy tower slipping and nearly falling goes awry.
What happened between she and Chas—what Chas had done to them—was to injure, destroy, ruin, to shatter.
And yet, on this day fifteen years later, he’d given her magic. And of all the people in the world, who was standing beside her now when her entire life might be in jeopardy, her mind little better than Swiss cheese? Chas Jamison.
“I’m so confused,” she said slowly. Honestly.
“I know,” he acknowledged.
“Not just about the past, but about the present, too, Chas. And I don’t just mean the memory lapses or the panic attacks. I mean what I’m feeling about you. About you and me. Or maybe it’s like you said and the past isn’t ever really gone. And that can be confusing, too.”
He looked over at her then, reaching over to where she was sitting to cup her face in his broad hand. “I know you don’t like to hear it, Allison, I know the words get all chewed up in feelings from the past, in the confusion going on now, but I do love you.”
He didn’t stroke her face or do anything more than continue to gently hold her in the palm of his hand. “That comes without strings, Allison. The way I believe love should. If someday you want to do something about it, that’ll be up to you. And if you don’t, that will also be up to you. But I think you should know, and really believe what I’m saying, because it’s true and it’s from the heart.”
She didn’t know what to say to this declaration, any more than she’d known what to say in the clinic. But she wasn’t angry with him now for saying the words. And she knew she didn’t want to wound him now. She knew that some part of her cared too much for him, for what he’d done for her this day and for that past he swore wasn’t gone, to want to hurt him with ancient accusations.
But she couldn’t lie to him about the present, either. She didn’t know what she felt for him at this moment. She only knew she was anything but indifferent.
She stammered some of this, wishing she knew exactly how she felt.
“Come sit with me,” he said, scooting over a little from his place on the floor in front of the sofa and dragging a cushion from the couch for her to sit on. She slipped from her chair and sat on the cushion, nestling into the crook of his arm, laying her head on his chest.
Just being there in his arms made her feel safe and peaceful. And so very aware of him. Was that love?
But how could she give in to loving a man who had hurt her so very badly all those years ago? Could the past be pigeonholed, neatly set aside, as in her dream when her father-clock wanted her to bury the past?
Wrapped in the warmth of his arms, lulled by the dinner, by the fire, by the love she felt radiating out from him, she told him about the dream.
Chas waited until she’d finished the entire dream before saying anything, though his hand continually either stroked or held her close to him.
“And then you woke up, trying to catch the box marked Yesterday?”
“Yes, and then the sound of the clock ticking was still going on at the window. And I saw the hand.”
“But the hands on the clock—your Dad—they were on November?”
“Yes.”
“And you quit smoking in November.”
She felt a flicker of fear. And a mild resentment. She didn’t want to remember her troubles now. Not on this day. Not while so comfortable in his arms. She hadn’t told him about the dream because she’d needed reminding about the present.
But in the face of his statement, she had to wonder why she had told him about it. Her subconscious mind trying to reveal the truths again?
“Yes,” she said tersely. Her heart beat arrhythmically, tock...tock... tick-tock.
“Allison...what was in the box marked Yesterday?” he asked.
The man who called himself Quentin aligned his devices on
the cleaned dresser. He set out the remaining three ampoules of the pentobarbital he’d stolen right from the stud’s own clinic and arranged the sterile disposable needles beside them.
One for the shepherd, two for the sheep. He chuckled at his own wit.
He began humming “Baa-baa Black Sheep” as he set out the remainder of his toys, a length of cotton rope, a ball gag, the rest of the fishing line and a portable clock. He set a knife alongside the other things, then picked it up again, turning it in his hands.
He ceased humming.
He met his own gaze in what was left of the mirror, a jagged shard that revealed only his upper face. His reflection couldn’t smile, but he did nonetheless. He held the sharp knife blade up beside his eyes and turned it until it captured a glint of the light from the unshaded lamp. The refraction bounced from the knife to the mirror and back.
“You’ll remember now, Allison,” he said. “You’ll remember everything. ‘Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.’”
Chas felt the tension rippling through Allison, knew that whatever had been in the box in her dream was of far greater importance to her than he’d suspected at first.
But she didn’t answer him. Instead, she asked, “Was your marriage to Thelma a good one?”
The question rocked him; it was so far removed from anything he’d suspected she might say.
“No,” he answered. It was easier to just admit the truth and be done with it than to elaborate, to try softening it with explanation.
She sighed a little, and he wished he could know what she was thinking, what she was feeling. Finally she cleared her throat a little. “Why? Why wasn’t it good, Chas?”
He could tell her that Thelma had been an alcoholic. That would put the blame squarely on Thelma’s shoulders, and he could appear the selfless, long-suffering husband, noble father of Billy. But it wouldn’t be the whole truth. He deserved some of the blame for Thelma’s fascination with vodka and rum.
Almost Remembered Page 15
