The Cards of Life and Death (Modern Gothic Romance 2)

by Colleen Gleason

  She bit her lip, wishing there was a way to keep him from coming. She wasn’t certain she was ready to see him yet.

  But when she confronted him about Valerie Whoever, he’d apologized—even cried when he told her it had been a one-time thing and that he’d made a mistake, and that he didn’t want to lose her. I love you, Diana. I was just a little scared—things have happened so quickly between us—and I made a mistake. I felt terrible the whole time. I knew it was wrong. I’m sorry I hurt you.

  “Well?” he asked, a tinge of impatience in his voice.

  “Um, I really can’t think of anything I need right now,” she replied—then forced herself to joke, “other than a cell tower in the yard here, but I don’t think even you can make that happen.”

  He chuckled at the compliment. “Well, then, that’s it. My flight gets in Friday night—can I text you the details? How far of a drive is it up there to your aunt’s?”

  “It’s a bit more than an hour from the airport. You can try to text. I’m pretty sure I can get service in town,” she told him, and briefly closed her eyes when a telltale flicker of white light skittered across her vision. This migraine was coming on fast.

  Just then, a knock sounded on the front door—the old, heavy brass knocker thunked twice, then paused, then twice again.

  “Belindaaaa,” a masculine voice called as Diana heard the door open. “Belinda, it’s me!”

  Diana started for the foyer before remembering she was restricted by the ugly black phone cord. “Jonathan, I’ve got to run. Someone’s at the door.”

  “Belindaaa!” The door closed and footsteps thudded across the wood floor.

  Diana hung up the phone and started for the foyer.

  “Hey, Belinda! I’m just here to pick up my be—” The man stopped as Diana swung around the corner from the kitchen. “Oh! I’m sorry, I just stopped in to see Belinda.”

  “Excuse me, but who are you?” She came halfway across the high-ceilinged foyer and folded her arms across her chest, trying not to be concerned that a very tall, unshaven young man had entered the house uninvited. Obviously he knew her aunt—or, at least, she hoped he knew her aunt.

  “I’m Ethan, a friend of Belinda’s. Who are you?” his voice was polite, but the dark gaze that examined her was bold and thorough.

  He was young and fit, probably mid-twenties, and looked like a hippie. He had a wild-looking goatee and moustache that needed trimming, long sideburns, and a dark ponytail that rode low upon his neck. She wasn’t frightened—mostly irritated, and a little confused. Maybe he did the lawns or was a delivery boy.

  “I’m Diana Iverson, Belinda’s niece,” she told him coolly.

  “You’re Diana?” he smiled and the crinkles that fanned from the corners of his eyes required her to adjust her estimate of his age upward a notch. Thirty, maybe. “I’m so glad to meet you. She’s spoken often of you. So you were finally able to make it up here for a visit? I’ll bet she’s thrilled.”

  “Mr.—uh—”

  “Actually, it’s Doctor—Tannock. Ethan Tannock,” he said as if surprised that she didn’t know his name. His eyes became wary, focused steadily on her.

  Diana hid her surprise at the title. “Dr. Tannock, I’m not sure what you’re doing, barging into my aunt’s house like this—”

  “I’m sorry if I startled you. I just stopped in to get the beer she owes me.” The smile returned and she noticed a deep crease on the left side of his face that ended at the unruly goatee.

  Diana frowned and the headache pain radiated from over her left ear. She knew it would rapidly become unbearable, and she wanted to get him out of her house as quickly as possible. “Dr. Tannock, I don’t know when you spoke to my aunt last—”

  “A few weeks ago, when I learned I’d won a little bet we had—”

  “—But I have some bad news for you,” she continued to speak over his congenial explanation while trying to ignore the pain that was beginning to seep toward the front of her temples. “I buried her more than two weeks ago.”

  “What?” Shock replaced confidence and charm.

  “My great-aunt passed away three weeks ago Sunday,” she told him. “Heart failure—in her sleep.” Nausea settled in her stomach and she swallowed hard, blinking against the string of lights that hovered at the edge of her vision. The dull throb radiated in her temple and she closed her eyes briefly. Go away before I lose it and vomit right here.

  “My God.” Tannock skimmed his hand over the hair pulled smoothly back into its tail. “I had no idea—I’m sorry.” He stepped toward her then seemed to think better of it. “What happened? She was fine when I talked to her. She sounded fine.”

  His eyes were a sharp, hard beer-bottle brown as they looked closely at her. The migraine was becoming more insistent and she had to resist the urge to push her fingertips into the sides of her forehead. “She died in her sleep, Dr. Tannock, and the funeral was the Wednesday following. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have quite a bit to do.”

  “Of course.” His voice was clipped and Diana felt the weight of his intent stare as he persisted. “Uh … are you all right?”

  “Yes. I’m fine, I just didn’t expect or want visitors at this time.” She forced herself to say the words as politely and calmly as possible. The last thing she needed was a young know-it-all intern telling her how to treat her migraines when she’d already tried everything under the sun. A large black spot leapt before her eyes and she blinked rapidly, and in vain, to make it disappear.

  “Well, I apologize for barging in on you like this,” Tannock said, backing toward the door while he continued to study her with a frown. “Your aunt was a good friend of mine. If there’s anything I can do to help you out, please let me know.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said, purposely neglecting to ask how to contact him. “Thank you for stopping by.”

  She barely closed the door behind her unwanted visitor when a moan escaped from the back of her throat. Fighting the black spots and flashes of light that accompanied the debilitating pain, Diana hurried to find the bag where she’d left her medication.

  Moments later, she was curled up on the bed, hands fisted over her closed eyes, fighting the agony.

  ~*~

  Ethan strolled down the lane from Belinda Lawry’s house and cut across the Hornbergers’ yard to his own, two houses down a twisting, narrow tire-track lane that ended at his small log cabin. He was shocked and saddened, even devastated, to learn that Belinda had died that night after last talking with him.

  He was even more disturbed that he’d been down in Princeton and missed the funeral. What the hell was up with that? Joe should have known he’d want to know. Of course, he hadn’t been in town much since returning late last night. Damn.

  Not only that, but he was beyond irritated by the cold brush-off given him by Belinda’s bitchy niece. He’d heard enough about Diana Iverson over the last year to know that the woman was a self-centered, career-focused ballbuster who had no time for family or anyone but herself.

  But the worst of it was that Belinda was gone. Damn, Bee. I’m going to miss the hell out of you.

  And not just because of his work. Belinda was a fascinating subject, and the center of his latest study, but she’d also become a friend and mentor to him. Especially after the divorce.

  To his surprise, a wayward tear stung one eye as he yanked open the door to his cabin. Cady bounded across the room to meet him, leaving a telltale imprint on the couch from which she was supposedly banned.

  “Hey, girl.” Ethan knelt to ruffle her thick fur, pulling the black lab’s face close to his. “Belinda’s dead. Can you believe it? I sure can’t. I just can’t believe it. I didn’t even know about the funeral. I’m going to have to have words with Joe Cap about that.” A big pink tongue slathered his face, carefully avoiding the bristly goatee, as Ethan sank to the floor.

  It was some time later, when the sun had dipped behind the fringe of trees at the edge of the lake, that Ethan
hoisted himself to his feet. His face was damp from Cady’s attentions as well as a narrow rivulet of tears that had settled in his beard.

  I could go for a beer just now. He peered into the refrigerator, but the six-pack of New Castle Ale was still sitting in Belinda’s fridge—at least, as far as he knew. When she’d called him down at Princeton almost a month ago to tell him he could pick up his winnings the next time he came up, she’d cackled gleefully and told him she had it in the fridge, getting cold for him. He told her he’d be up as soon as the semester was over, and here he was.

  But she was gone.

  Ethan pushed the door closed with more force than necessary, sorrow welling inside him again. In her sleep, the niece had said.

  Diana. Diana Iverson. His brows tightened—Belinda had always called her something else, something fanciful like Avalina … Lianella? …. No, wait—Andiana. Andiana Maria.

  Andiana Maria?

  He shook his head, pulling a TV dinner from his freezer. He’d never met anyone who looked less like such a frou-frou name. Stress and tension had emanated from her as she confronted him in the hallway. Apparently, she was a malpractice lawyer down in Boston, and was obviously used to working long hours for massive fees in prim suits and sensible heels. No wonder she went by the shorter version of her name.

  “Not that she’s not good-looking,” he told Cady pleasantly as he crushed the cardboard box and put it in the trash compactor. “She’s actually pretty hot, despite the fact that she’s an ice-queen and dresses for the country club even up here in Damariscotta.” Her short hair was thick and dark and curled around her face and jaw, making her look as if she’d just rolled out of bed … or, better yet, been tumbled into it.

  Cady flopped in a heap on the floor and groaned.

  “So sorry if I’m boring you.” Ethan grinned down at his best friend and lifted the lid from a glass jar on the counter that held dog biscuits. Instantly, Cady scrambled back to her feet, ears perked up in anticipation. He lightly tossed his pet a treat and replaced the jar.

  Diana Iverson, he thought again, with a short laugh that turned bitter. His first reaction on meeting her had been surprise and pleasure on behalf of Belinda, delighted that the niece had finally come to visit—until he’d learned why. The busy, ass-kissing lawyer who couldn’t bother to visit her great-aunt in twenty years finally made the trip just in time to collect her substantial inheritance.

  Aside from that, she’d looked at him like he was some sort of furry, crawly bug when he’d corrected her to say “doctor.”

  Just then, he caught sight of himself in the mirrored microwave door—spotless, thanks to his cleaning lady—and grimaced. He’d forgotten about that god-awful beard. He looked like a mountain man. He kept it during the year because it did the trick to keep the young things away from him on campus. No wonder Diana Iverson been so wary, and so intent upon getting rid of him.

  Fiona had been giving him shit about the beard too, for months, and he supposed he’d better get rid of it before her wedding. Now that he was home for the summer and away from campus, he’d take care of it. Maybe he’d even get the ponytail cut and look a little more respectable. It would be cooler, at any rate.

  The microwave beeped that his well-preserved dinner was ready to eat, and he gingerly slid the plastic tray onto a plate. Moments later, he was settled in a heavy cedar lounge chair on the screened porch that overlooked Lake Damariscotta.

  Ah. July in Maine.

  Though the sun had set and the sky held only a glow near the horizon, there was still plenty to see. Lights winked along the shoreline in homes that were inhabited year-round. The tops of tall pines swayed with a faint breeze, brushing against each other high in the sky. A bold streak of pink in the western sky echoed the fading sunlight. There were the sounds of whippoorwills and crickets, the rustling of various wildlife in the forest that surrounded the lake, and, occasionally, the hoot of a lonely owl.

  It was peaceful.

  Ethan looked through the trees along the lake and picked out Belinda’s home. One faint light shone through a window in the old clapboard structure. Sadness washed over him.

  Abruptly, he decided he wasn’t hungry for cardboard food and set the TV dinner tray on the floor for Cady, thinking, still, about Diana Iverson.

  ~*~

  Diana dragged herself awake into darkness, blind fear crushing lungs that dug deep for air. Struggling to push the weight of terror from her chest, she grappled with the tentacle-like sheets and pulled herself upright in the bed.

  Moonlight streamed into the room as she sat there, gasping, shaking, trying to push away the remnants of the black nightmare that twined around her, engulfing her with its heaviness. She saw the pale oval of her face reflected in the mirror on Belinda’s bureau drawer and shrank away from the vision made by the dark holes of her eyes and the stark terror on her face.

  She’d never had a dream so completely consuming, so mind-numbingly frightening—yet she didn’t know what it was about. There had been only blackness descending upon her, smothering her, pressing her down into some dark, horrifying state.

  Diana dragged her shaking limbs out of bed, glad she’d never had such an experience while with Jonathan. Glancing at the tussled bedclothes, she realized she didn’t trust herself to go back to sleep without falling into the dark pit again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Diana awoke to sunshine. It glared from a crack between the heavy velvet curtains and the windowpane, making a crooked line over the floor of the den. She pulled herself up, stretching her aching back, and blinked a few times to clear her vision. Last evening’s migraine was gone, as was the terrible dream, and she felt relatively well rested, though a bit hollow.

  She caught sight of the digital clock on the desk—an anomaly in the lacy, Victorian room—and started. Nine o’clock? Could that be right?

  Diana rolled quickly off the velvet-upholstered settee, her feet landing on the rug with a profound thump. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept past seven. Even on vacation, she and Jonathan rose early to golf.

  A little dazed that her internal alarm clock had failed her, Diana stumbled down the short hallway to the bathroom. Moments later, under a tepid shower, she planned her day as she poured Aunt Belinda’s cheap, strawberry-scented shampoo in her hair.

  By the time she was tousling her short hair into a damp cap, wishing that it wasn’t quite so unruly, Diana knew exactly what she had to get done—including a run to the grocery store for something fresh. It was odd not being able to check her BlackBerry every few minutes—but she couldn’t unless she was in town. And Mickey was handling things back at the office.

  Wrapped in a towel, she padded down the hall to Belinda’s bedroom, and, to her chagrin, felt her heart begin to pound as she pushed open the door. After a moment of hesitation, she forced herself to stride purposefully into the room despite the uneasiness curling in her stomach. The bed was a disaster of sheets, pillows, and the matelassé coverlet—very much unlike she normally left her sleeping abode. In fact, Jonathan often teased her that if it weren’t for him, their bed would never look as though it had been slept in.

  That brought back unpleasant thoughts about whether Valerie the Slut messed up her sheets (of course she did) and Diana distracted herself by quickly making up the bed here. Only when that was finished and the pillows neatly arranged was she able to turn her attention to dressing.

  Just as she was pulling on a blue polo over pleated khaki shorts, she heard the heavy doorknocker at the front of the house. Diana started out of the bedroom but paused when her attention fell on the mahogany box. It was out of place, sitting on the bedside table with its lid sitting next to it. She’d neglected to put it away yesterday because of the onset of her migraine. For one absurd moment, she wondered if that was the reason for her wrenching dream.

  The Fool sat on top of the deck, and suddenly Diana had a flash of memory. The vision was so abrupt and so strong, she curled her fingers around the bedp
ost to steady herself.

  He—the Fool—figured widely in the mental image that presented itself in the front of her mind, cavorting throughout and mingling with obscure images of Aunt Belinda and Jonathan, as well as a dark-haired man she didn’t know and a scrap of newspaper that kept reappearing. It was almost as if she were dreaming, right here in the middle of wakefulness.

  The Fool is the Number Zero, and is the beginning of the Major Arcana, she could almost hear Aunt Belinda say. He is also as we are at the beginning of any journey—gay, innocent, inexperienced, artless, and open-minded.

  How could she know this? And remember such detail? She hadn’t seen Aunt Belinda since she was thirteen. And after that, her mother had done everything she could to wipe away any memories that might have persisted, completely destroying the relationship between Diana and her great-aunt.