“I slept like a log,” Diana replied. There was no need to let on that she’d thrashed about sleeplessly for hours after he’d left her to go upstairs.
“Glad to hear it. Well, I promised you breakfast—we can eat out on the deck.”
By the time Diana got out of the shower, the smells of something delicious were wafting under the door of the guest room. Her hair was still wet, and she considered blowing it dry, but decided that there was no reason to put any effort into her appearance for Ethan. It didn’t matter what she looked like to him, Diana told herself, even as she inspected herself without makeup and hesitated before holding firm with her decision not to primp. He thought her hair was pretty? Wait till he saw it completely out of control. He’d change his mind quickly enough.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door to the bedroom and found Cady lying there across the threshold. The black lab sprang to her feet, tongue lolling in excitement, and Diana looked down at her distastefully. “Get away,” she suggested, beckoning with her hand.
The dog didn’t move, just looked up at her with mournful brown eyes, and stood expectantly, blocking the doorway. “Move,” she tried again weakly.
Cady licked her chops, sending a shiver of warning up Diana’s spine. “Um … nice doggie,” she said, and was relieved when the dog let her tongue hang out again. I’m not moving until you greet me in a proper manner, she seemed to say.
“Oh, all right.” Diana gave in and patted the top of her head clumsily. The fur, a shiny blue-black color, was surprisingly soft—not coarse as she’d expected. Cady still didn’t move, so Diana tried again, this time petting the dog’s forehead. “Watch out,” she said, and finally pushed past the lump of fur.
When she came around the corner into the kitchen, Cady was at her heels. “Good morning, ladies,” Ethan greeted them. He was now modestly attired in a pair of twill shorts and a dark red t-shirt, and stood at the stove. “Blueberry pancakes okay with you?” he asked, brandishing a spatula. “The berries are fresh from the market.”
Diana sighed deeply, inhaling the aroma of fluffy pancakes. “Wow,” she said, sliding onto a bar stool. “You can cook.”
“Yeah. I know how to crack a couple eggs and stir up a mix,” he said, gesturing to a box on the counter.
“That’s good enough for me.” She watched as he expertly flipped each flapjack, then added them to a growing pile on a plate in the oven. She’d never had a man make breakfast for her before. She’d never even had a man cook for her before. Jonathan’s idea of cooking was calling for takeout and putting it on a plate.
All at once, it struck her, like a bucket of cold water. The calm realization that she wouldn’t care if she never saw Jonathan again.
It was odd, the way her decision came—in such an unexpected way, at this moment over breakfast—and with such vehemence and clarity. And freedom. She came back to the present, to the smell of coffee and frying cakes, and settled back in her seat.
I’m going to break it off. Today.
She’d call Jonathan when she got back to the house—and that was when she remembered what she had been able to forget for several hours. A heavy weight settled over her shoulders, and the cheer of the day disintegrated. Aunt Belinda … murdered. Maybe. Diana’s tires slashed. Her house broken into.
“I was thinking,” Ethan said, gesturing for her to follow him to the patio, “if you want, I could put some safety locks on all of your ground-floor windows today … and maybe add some extra dead-bolts, if it might make you feel more comfortable.”
Diana sat on one of the wrought-iron chairs and gave him a surprised, grateful smile. “That would be great. You don’t mind taking a day from work to do that?”
“Not at all. My projects can wait. And I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable sleeping in that house unless something was done to make it safer.” He slopped syrup on a stack of pancakes as he settled into his own seat. “I’ll run into town to the hardware store after I drop you off, and get the stuff.”
“Thank you so much,” she said, suddenly feeling as if she wasn’t alone—that she didn’t have to deal with this whole terrible mess on her own. She smiled at him, he smiled back, and Diana felt a little bubble of warmth burst in her middle.
After breakfast, she cleaned up while he showered. Diana tried not to think about how domestic it all felt. After all, this was a temporary situation.
Ethan’s thudding steps down the stairs, punctuated by Cady’s four-pawed-gallop, came just as she finished wiping the counters. His hair was damp, he was clean-shaven, and he carried a pair of athletic shoes. “I’ve got to throw the ball for Cady for a few minutes, then we can go.”
Diana followed him outside and sat at the picnic table, watching as man and dog played together. She even clapped a few times when Cady caught the tennis ball neatly in her mouth, then pranced around happily. Once, the lab even brought the ball over to Diana and dropped it at her feet. Diana couldn’t disappoint her expectant look, and reached to pick it up. She almost dropped it when she felt its sloppy dampness, but managed to ignore the wetness long enough to toss it toward the lake.
It didn’t go as far as when Ethan threw it, but Cady chased after it gleefully. “Uh-oh, now you have a friend,” he said when the lab brought it back and dropped it at Diana’s feet again.
Diana acquiesced and threw the ball a few more times, then Ethan called Cady to go inside. “Let’s hit it,” he said, heading for the truck.
When they reached Diana’s house, he insisted on taking the keys and opening the door. Leading the way inside, he started down the hall, looking in each room.
Nothing else had been disturbed overnight, and Diana felt a wash of relief. She’d been afraid to come back and find even more destruction.
Ethan took charge in the den and Diana gratefully followed his lead. He turned on the radio to a station which blasted ’90s rock by The Spin Doctors, Sheryl Crowe and Nirvana, and they talked about the differences in their childhood—his growing up in a commune, hers in a staid suburb of Boston—from that decade as they worked in efficient tandem. His conversation made it easy for her to forget why they were there and what had caused the mess, and for that, she was supremely grateful.
When they’d bagged the last paper bag of periodicals and the den looked cleaner than it had probably been in years, Ethan loaded the garbage into the back of his truck. “All right, then, I’ll drop this off at the recycle place and get the locks and come on back. I’m going to leave Cady here, with you—outside,” he added when she felt her face freeze up. “You don’t have to let her in, and she won’t go anywhere, but if—well, anyway, she’ll be here. Let me count the windows, and I’ll be on my way.”
After he left, Diana took a deep breath and dialed Jonathan’s BlackBerry from the phone in the den. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to answer or not. It was Friday, and he didn’t usually schedule surgery on that day when he could be on the golf course. But before she could get anymore nervous, he answered.
“Diana!” The relief in his voice came through the phone. “How … how are you?”
Her heart gave a little bump. This was the first time they’d talked since the other night, when Ethan had answered the phone. Jonathan sounded sincerely happy to hear from her. And unusually tentative. Her palms became damp and she closed her eyes, aware of an unpleasant surging in her belly.
“I’m fine,” she told him. “Fine.”
“Diana, I want—will you come home? Please? I miss you. I’m—sorry about the other night. I was … well, I was jealous. And I want us to work through this, and we can’t work through this if you’re way up there in the middle of nowhere.”
“I’ll be home by Sunday night,” she said, gripping the phone tighter. Now was the time. She had to tell him. “To pack up my things. I’m moving out.”
“What?” The soft, empathetic tone changed to one of shock and dismay. “Diana, you can’t—”
“Jonathan,” she interrupted h
im, forcing herself to speak. “I’m moving out. It’s over.” She was aware of the unsettled feeling sinking over her, the deepening twist of nausea. What am I doing?
“Diana,” he said, his voice sharper now. Then he drew in an audible breath and she could tell he was trying to force himself into calmness. “Okay, okay, then, if you want to move out, take a little space, a little time to work things through, I can understand that. I can work with that,” he said. “We can do that.”
That little bump of nerves in her pulse grew stronger. Maybe that was the way she should approach it. Just move out for a little while, try to work things out. Not just close the door without trying again. “Okay,” she said.
“Okay,” he repeated. “Good. You’ll be home Sunday.”
“Yes. But I’m packing my things,” she said—as much to remind him as to remind herself. Her palms were clammy and the phone felt heavy and hot against her cheek.
“Where are you going to stay?” he asked. “There’s no rush, Diana.”
“Don’t worry about me. I have a place to stay,” she said, figuring she’d find a place. A hotel, at least, until she could find somewhere more permanent. Or with Mickey and her husband Dominic, if she got desperate. Her assistant had never been fond of Jonathan and would welcome the news that Diana had dumped him.
“All right. Whatever you need to do. Diana. I love you,” he said.
“All right. Jonathan, good-bye,” she said, forcing the words from her suddenly dry throat. She replaced the phone in its cradle and sank onto the settee. Numbness crept over her. Numbness and emptiness and a little fear.
What have I done?
Her fingers were trembling, and Diana clenched them tightly as if that would stop them from doing so. I did the right thing. I don’t feel anything for him anymore. I don’t know if I’ve felt anything for him for a while.
That thought shocked her, like a blinding white light in a room of darkness illuminating some ugly truth. Had she just been going along with him, with his pressure to get married? The pressure to be in a relationship, because it was something she’d despaired of ever happening?
Her attention fell on the familiar mahogany box, still in its place on the piecrust table. It beckoned, and she reached for it, a little prickling lifting the hair along her arms. The wood was smooth and surprisingly warm, and she lifted the lid. Then slammed it back into place.
“What am I doing?” She spoke aloud this time. She shoved the box back onto the table, aghast at whatever had compelled her to even think about pulling out those cards.
But she wasn’t paying attention, and somehow the box landed cattywonker on the table, then tumbled off and onto the settee. Cards spilled out, over the table, the sofa, and onto the floor in a slick, haphazard pile of red and blue diamond patterns.
All except for one card, which landed face-up. Right on the sofa next to her hand.
Death.
Diana went cold. Then hot. Her fingers trembled as she reached for it. The image was unmistakable: a skeleton wearing black armor, riding slowly on a dark horse. Death carried a flag with a rose depicted on it, and a man, woman, and child collapsed before him.
The Death card portends the end or cessation of something: a phase, a journey.
A relationship.
~*~
Ethan finished putting safety locks on all the first floor windows as well as deadbolts on the two doors by three o’clock. Diana thanked him profusely, but when he tried to talk her into joining him for dinner, she declined.
She needed some space … to think about the change in her life. She didn’t need Ethan Tannock distracting her.
She wanted to be alone.
After he left, Diana paced around the house feeling out of sorts and off-kilter. Part of her felt guilty for not joining him for dinner after he’d done so much work for her. She had the sense that he was lonely and would have liked the company … but she couldn’t do it. If she did, she’d tell him about Jonathan. And she wasn’t really ready to talk about it yet.
It was still too new—this sense of freedom and apprehension. And she didn’t want him to think that he’d had anything to do with her ending the relationship with Jonathan. A guy who looked like Ethan, with his ease and charm around women, could easily assume that.
“What you need,” she told herself finally, staring at her reflection in the mirror of the bedroom, “is some shopping. A dinner out … and maybe a movie. Anything to keep from thinking about this mess.”
The idea brightened her. If she left now, she could be in Portland by three-thirty—plenty of time to shop on a Friday night. Diana threw open her closet door and found a casual dress and a pair of sandals. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done something so carefree and unplanned. She and Jonathan rarely went to the movies … in fact, she had a sinking suspicion that the last time they’d gone had been when they’d first started dating. A year ago.
The realization that she was about to do something spontaneous reminded her of the Tarot cards, and of The Fool. And of Death.
Nervousness prickled down the back of her neck and upset her insides.
So far, she’d managed to ignore the fact that she’d actually told Joe Cap and Ethan that Belinda had been murdered. Ethan had broached the subject once today while they were cleaning the den, but she cut him off and changed the topic. She couldn’t go there. Not yet.
How could she have known what happened to her aunt? It wasn’t a random Tarot card spilling out of a box. It had been a dream. A real, horrifying dream.
Was she really right, or was it some figment of her imagination? Or, could it have been just an intuition, an impression that garnered credibility when Joe Cap began talking about his suspicions of Belinda’s death? Or was it a product of imagination after these other things had happened?
Her head began to pound, and Diana shook away the thoughts before they turned into another migraine. She gathered up her handbag and car keys, ready to get away from the house. But as she started for the front door, she had an insistent niggling in the back of her mind.
Something compelled her, urging her into the den. She’d replaced the Tarot cards before Ethan returned with the locks, and they sat in their mahogany box right next to Aunt Bee’s journal on the desk.
She picked up the box and the journal, and walked out of the den, realizing that her compulsion was to put them somewhere else. She didn’t want to leave them sitting out.
The kitchen wouldn’t do, Diana thought, hesitating as her hand hovered over the counter. Nor did she want to put them in her bedside table. She picked up her laptop case and unzipped it to add the slim mahogany box and the diary.
And, when she left the house for her shopping trip, she felt the need—the insistent, niggling need—to bring the laptop with her.
CHAPTER NINE
Ethan flipped through all two hundred of his satellite television channels for the third time in fifteen minutes. He yawned, muttering, “Can’t believe there’s nothing good on any of these.”
The truth was, there probably was something good on one of them—after all, it was nearly nine, and it was Friday night—but nothing seemed to catch his interest. It was all the same—either sports, sit-com reruns, or bloody, violent movies. Normally, any one of those categories worked for him on a Friday night … but not this one.
He’d tried to work at the laptop, making notes and pulling the pieces of his research together, but he hadn’t been able to concentrate. He’d even spent a few minutes writing notes on his observations of and conversations with Diana in the last few days.
The subject showed vehement disbelief when the topic of her relative’s psychic ability was broached… It remains to be determined whether the migraines are a result of the suppressed workings of the unconscious… The subject will bear more observation and tactful interview…. The subject, adamant about disbelieving in such tools, looks askance upon the Tarot cards and denies having interacted with them.
In light of al
l this, Diana’s revelation in Joe Cap’s office about her aunt having been smothered was a shock—but not completely unexpected. While Ethan’s scientist side needed to ask more questions and find out more of what had happened to prompt her to make that statement, the compassionate side knew he couldn’t push her. She was fragile enough without him manhandling her on the way.
But either way, no matter what he did he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Despite having been well and truly burned by not one but two women in his life, here he was, unable to distance himself from yet another. And this one was a lawyer—used to manipulating information and facts in order to do her job. God, he’d be putty in her hands if she put her mind to it.
He wasn’t even certain what it was that attracted him so strongly. She could be frosty, emotionless, and condescending … but she had a softer, more relaxed side with an odd sense of humor. And when she looked at him with those blue eyes, so grateful for his simple offers of help, he couldn’t account for how it made him feel inside. Protective, yes, but hot and needy too.
The Cards of Life and Death (Modern Gothic Romance 2) Page 18
