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

by Colleen Gleason

  “Thinking about joining the quilters, Tannock?” Marc Reardon was asking. “You’ll have to be pretty talented with a needle to keep up with this bunch.” He patted Betsy Farr’s hand, and Ethan watched her eyelids flutter in ecstasy. “I bought a quilt from these ladies not three weeks ago, and already I’ve had five offers for it.”

  “I don’t think they’d take me in,” Ethan replied with a good-natured laugh. “I don’t know a shoo fly from a monkey wrench, whatever that means, and I sure as hell can’t thread a needle.” He glanced at Diana and suggested with more than a bit of malice, “Why don’t you see if Bee’s niece might want to join while she’s here?”

  “What a wonderful idea!” gushed Rose Bettinger, jowls jiggling with enthusiasm. “Would you like to work with us in your aunt’s place, Diana?”

  The woman in question shot Ethan a nasty glare before turning a sweet smile toward the group of ladies. “Oh, I’m absolutely no good with a needle and thread, and I really don’t have a lot of time up here. It wouldn’t make sense for me to get in the group and then have to leave in a week or two.”

  “A week or two?” repeated Jonathan Wertinger, looking decidedly displeased, echoing Ethan’s own dismayed thoughts.

  That wasn’t nearly enough time to observe Diana for his study, particularly since he didn’t dare tell her his intentions—which he wouldn’t be doing if they couldn’t have a civil conversation.

  “You’re only staying for that long? We thought you’d be here for the summer like the rest of those blasted tourists,” Helen Galliday groused.

  “I love it up here, but I really can’t take that long from my practice back in Boston,” Diana tried to explain.

  “Well, you’ll be back to visit, won’t you?” Pauline Whitten pressed.

  Diana looked at Ethan as if she’d like to murder him for bringing this up, her blue-gray stare cutting him into little pieces. Then she seemed to collect herself and returned her attention to Helen Galliday, absently tucking one short tress behind an ear to reveal a large pearl stud. The dark lock curled under, peeking out beneath the earlobe and just brushing the pearl. Even in the dim light of the restaurant, the luminescence of the jewel and the shiny embrace of her hair were a combination of classic beauty and elegance. The rest of her walnut-colored mop, rising in soft waves from her forehead and brushing her bare nape, was tousled and full … almost messy, as if she’d just had sex. It left the long expanse of her neck bare to the potential caress of a finger … or a pair of lips.

  Doing a mental double take, he reapplied his attention back to the conversation at hand. Wholly annoyed with himself, and that part of his anatomy that traditionally led him into troublesome situations, he shifted in his seat and firmly directed his thoughts elsewhere.

  “You aren’t going to sell Bee’s house are you?” Helen Galliday was demanding.

  Diana smoothed the skirt of her sundress, relieved when she felt the weight of Ethan’s gaze move away. She was incredulous that he would just sit there, as calmly and innocently as if nothing had transpired between them and she hadn’t uncovered his ulterior motives. Didn’t the man have any sense of shame?

  “Well, Mrs. Galliday,” she equivocated, “I really haven’t decided what I’m going to do with the house yet. I have a lot of paperwork to go through before I can make a final decision anyway.”

  “Bella, she’s gonna sell the house!” Helen announced as Mirabella walked up with a pot of coffee.

  “Oh my. I can’t imagine what Tommy will say ’bout that!” She stood with a hand planted on her generous hip and looked questioningly at Diana.

  “Who’s Tommy? And why would he care?” Diana asked, feeling more uncomfortable now with all eyes on her.

  “Why he’s your great-uncle’s cousin’s son—didn’t you know that?—and my husband for forty years. Your Aunt Bee used to have him come over and plow her out in the winter time.”

  Diana stared at her. “I’m sorry. I had no idea we were related.” Anger swept through her—how many other relatives had her mother kept from her? “We’ll have to get together some time and catch up on things.” She would not let this opportunity to spend time with her family get away from her, as it had with Aunt Bee.

  “Well, now, honey, that would be right nice. It’s not as though you’re close cousins or anything, but blood is blood is blood. I’ll tell Tommy, an’ I’m sure he’ll be tickled pink! Now, he will be a mite disappointed if you do sell the house—”

  “I’m sure Ms. Iverson will make the best decision she can.” Marc Reardon entered the fray with a smile at Diana. “But we can’t expect her to make it so soon, now, can we?”

  Diana nodded gratefully as Jonathan leaned closer to her so that his shoulder pushed against hers. She shifted away, suddenly claustrophobic, and felt Ethan’s attention return to her. An amused smile twitched his mouth and humor twinkled in his eyes, crinkling their corners. It seemed as though he was enjoying a joke at her expense and she bristled at the patronizing look. If she weren’t so tactful—and fully aware of the ramifications of libel—she’d bring the whole subject up again, right here, and see what he had to say about it then. And who could know, perhaps he’d been working on one of the other old ladies. Why else would he be having dinner with them on a Saturday night?

  At that moment, Ethan stood, taking Helen Galliday’s hand in his. “It’s always a pleasure to see you ladies.”

  As he said his goodbyes to the quilters, Diana noticed the easy smile that warmed his face again and again, and the way he spoke to each of the women. Charm and casual flirtation came so easily to him, she thought, watching as he made Betsy Farr giggle and Rose Bettinger blush with an off-hand, but seemingly sincere, compliment.

  When he finally turned that smile and those warm, crinkling eyes toward her, for a moment she, too, was almost disarmed by them. Then, as if realizing on whom he was wasting his charm, Ethan shuttered his face into a polite mask. Diana cooled her faint smile to an urbane one and accepted his hand for a business-like shake. “It was nice to see you again,” she told him, ignoring the fact that his grip was firm and warm and made her uncomfortably aware of the heat of his touch.

  He moved away to shake Jonathan’s hand, and then Marc’s, and then, with one last quick wave, he left the group.

  ~*~

  Diana battled herself awake, clawing her way out of the dream.

  Heavy darkness suffocated her and a sob jerked deep inside as she struggled to bring herself back to the present. Her hair was plastered to cheeks damp with sweat, her skin clammy with fear, and her breath caught and rasped in the dead silence.

  She was curled up on the settee in Belinda’s den, a crocheted afghan tossed over her in protection against the chill Maine night. The Tiffany lamp by which she’d been reading still burned on the table next to her, creating a small circle of light in an otherwise dark, shadowed room.

  The dream ebbed, but the fear, the visions and the sense of terror did not. She finally understood what it was: the heavy, claustrophobic sense of being smothered, of heavy softness pressing down over and into her nose and mouth as her arms and legs fought helplessly, unable to pull it away, unable to free herself from the dull, hot staleness of stunted air.

  Before she fully shook herself from the nightmare’s grip, a remnant of the dream crystallized in her mind. The clarity was so perfect, so sudden and perfect, it was as though she was looking at a film before her eyes—only it was in her head, not on any screen anywhere.

  It was Belinda. No, she was Belinda—Belinda struggling against a heavy force that pressed against her face, filled her nostrils, silenced her gaping, gasping mouth … then Belinda, slowing, succumbing to the inevitable end, sagging into stillness.

  Diana froze. Her whole world stopped, her mind and body going deathly, silently still. Even the murmur of her heart, the shallowness of her breathing, the trembling of her nerves paused … and an incredible certainty flooded her. Then she knew.

  She knew.

&nb
sp; A movement in the doorway caused her to shriek, clapping her hand to her heart. “Jonathan!” The lurching of her stomach calmed and she regained the ability to speak. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “I thought you were coming to bed,” he said, his tone faintly accusing. “It’s after two.”

  “I’m sorry. I fell asleep reading.” She could hardly form the words from lips that felt frozen in place. Her body was numb while nausea roiled in her belly and the trembling began in earnest. Hiding her shaking hands in the afghan, she looked toward Jonathan, wanting to rush into his arms—someone’s arms—for comfort … but something held her back.

  Diana forced a smile as he approached. She couldn’t move to stand for fear her knees would buckle, and Jonathan’s sudden intrusion into her … whatever it was … left her feeling unfinished and disoriented. She blinked hard, gave her head a little shake, and shrugged off the remnants of the dream—or most of it, anyway.

  He was dressed only in a pair of cotton boxers, and his half-nude body slanted toward her, lean and pale in the dim light. His sandy brown hair was mussed, tufting from his temples in soft fluffs, and the lids of his eyes drooped partly closed. He’d fallen asleep in bed while she straightened up, washed her face, brushed her teeth, fed the cats, locked the doors—did her normal nightly routine.

  She couldn’t help but wonder if he was tired because he’d been up late—or even all night—the night before. With Valerie, the Vixen Surgeon.

  Biting her lip, Diana silently chastised herself. I’ve got to let this go. He’s a good man. He loves me. He wants to marry me. I’m thirty-three, and I’m ready to get married. I may never have another chance.

  “Diana, I haven’t seen you all week,” he reminded her coaxingly, pulling the afghan from her lap and tossing it on an ottoman. Taking her hand, he eased her to her feet, and the book she’d been reading thumped onto the floor.

  When she would have reached for it, he gathered her to his bare chest, wrapping arms warm from sleep around her. “I’ve missed you, darling,” he murmured into her hair. “So much.”

  Diana slid her arms around his waist and dropped her head onto his shoulder, willing herself to stay in the moment, to be with him. But she couldn’t relax, she couldn’t give in to the affection and emotion she’d once had. She felt nothing.

  Bitter tears filled her eyes and she blinked them back, furious once again with him for breaking her trust, and with herself for this empty, bland feeling … and still uncomfortably aware of the horror of being asphyxiated in her dream.

  Of Belinda being asphyxiated.

  She felt the shift beneath his boxers as his arousal swelled, nudging against her. He dropped a kiss into her hair, then tilted his head back to kiss her on the mouth. Closed lips, warm and dry, the kiss was a formality, a prelude to what would follow. His hands slid to cup her bottom, pulling her closer to his erection.

  She’d never been a particularly eager lover—sex was messy, and she worried about how she looked naked, along with a variety of other things—but now she felt a complete absence of interest. She felt nothing. Not even aversion.

  Just … nothing.

  “Why don’t you come to bed now,” he suggested in her ear, his mouth slipping to kiss a tender spot on her neck.

  She wanted to want to go with him. She wanted things to be all right. She didn’t want this blank feeling rising between them. And she suddenly dreaded the thought of following him back into the bedroom where such a horrific thing had happened to Aunt Belinda in that room. In that bed.

  “I ….” She pulled away, turned to pick up the book. “Not tonight, Jonathan.”

  “What do you mean, not tonight?” He sounded shocked and irritated, and he had sleep-breath tinged with wine. “I came all the way up here to see you. I have to go back tomorrow.”

  She folded the quilt deliberately, straightened the pillows, and replaced the book on its shelf. “I’m too tired,” she lied, not willing to go into the reasons. Not yet, not now. She’d get over this distance from him soon enough, but she needed time. “And you must be too, you fell asleep so quickly.”

  “But now I’m awake,” he said, the hint of a whine in his doctor’s voice. “And so are you. Diana, you’re not still upset about … what happened, are you?”

  She had to bite her tongue not to snap back at him, No, I’m not at all upset that I showed up to surprise you at your conference hotel and found another woman sharing your room. Why should I be? We’ve only been together a year, we’ve only been planning to get married this fall. Why should something like that bother me for more than, oh, say, a minute or two?

  But instead of saying what she really wanted to, she put on the bland mask her mother had taught her to wear and said, “I’m just tired, Jonathan. And I’m still grieving for Aunt Bee. But I am ready to go to sleep.”

  At least, she’d give him that. And maybe, just maybe, in the morning she’d wake up next to him and feel better.

  ~*~

  Sunday mornings were lazy ones at the Tannock household. Ethan rolled out of bed—to Cady’s immense relief—at ten o’clock, and staggered sleepily to the door to let the whining dog out to do her business.

  He stood in the doorway, arms folded over his bare chest and enjoyed the feel of the morning breeze over his naked body. Ethan yawned, stretching one arm straight into the air, and let it drop to scratch his head, then to his rump, then to adjust his balls. It was heaven living in a place where you could walk in your back yard naked.

  Cady finished her business and decided she wanted to play, and Ethan, starting to become fully awake, stepped off the porch onto the lawn. His yard was a half-acre of clipped grass, studded with a few trees and surrounded by sky-scraping pines and heavy woods—and was less comfortable in the evenings than the morning because of the flies and mosquitoes. The lake glittered blue just down a small incline, between pines and maples and cottonwoods.

  “Come on, Cady, let’s go swimming.” He grabbed a pair of shorts that hung over a chair on the deck.

  At the suggestion, the lab dropped the stick she’d been prancing about with and tore down the incline, splashing gleefully into the water. Ethan yanked on the shorts, then followed Cady down a cedar chip path and dove quickly from his dock into the lake.

  He surfaced, whooping from the refreshing eye-opener, and whipped his hair back. Cady paddled up next to him, thumping against him with her paws (and occasionally, with a claw), then headed back toward the shore where she could chase a goose. Ethan swam out from the tree-lined, shady shore and turned to look back.

  His gaze went immediately to the white clapboard house just a half-mile down from his. It sat on a bigger hill than his cabin’s, and had a larger yard cleared of trees. Ethan could even see Diana’s pale gold Lexus sitting in the drive.

  He floated on his back, narrowing his eyes against the sun. He tried to stop the mental image—but there it was: the ice-queen and her cardiologist, messing up those lacy pillows and embroidered sheets on that high Victorian bed.

  Disgust roiled inside him once again—anger for Belinda, and annoyance for himself. Although Diana’s accusations had infuriated him at the time, he’d since come to realize that he didn’t give a rat’s behind what she thought about him …. And he actually felt more than a bit smug, knowing that she thought the worst of him while he knew the worst of her.

  Ethan allowed himself to sink under the lake’s surface, then rise back up and let the water plaster his hair back. Cady was paddling back out to him, her nose just above the water, whuffling and snuffling. “Wanna go back?” he asked, then did a shallow dive, resurfacing several feet away.

  They stumbled to shore at the same time, Cady shaking herself from head to tail as Ethan tossed his hair back and wiped the water from his eyes. They hurried back to the house, refreshed and hungry.

  Just as they stepped onto the screened-in porch, Ethan heard the phone ringing. He grabbed a towel slung over a chair, pointed a finger at a dripping Cady and or
dered, “Park it.” He grabbed the cordless just as the answering machine began to whir into action. “Tannock.”

  “Hey, buddy, get off your ass and let’s go catch us some walleye.”

  “Hey, man, what’s up?”

  “I just told you. I’ll be over in fifteen with the worms and sandwiches if you supply the boat and the poles.” Joe Tettmueller’s voice had such a drawl to it that even when he was furious, the end of the sentence didn’t catch up to the beginning until the next day.

  “Sure sounds better than what I had planned. Make sure you bring some of Lucy’s corned beef for me. A big thick one.”

  True to his word—for he drove faster than he spoke—Joe Cap, as he was commonly called—pealed down the gravel drive in his shiny, nick-free, black F10 pickup minutes later.

  Taking the tackle box and four fishing poles, along with a net and a six-pack, Ethan commented, “You’re not on today, I guess?” He gestured to the beer.