“So you’re leaving us, Miss Summer.”
Katie turned at the remembered voice. The sight of Dr. Jonathan Shea standing in her doorway brought an unexpected rush of pleasure shot with alarm. She realized with some surprise she’d been half hoping she would see him again before she went home, though she hadn’t expected to see him looking as if he hadn’t slept in days. His clothes were rumpled, and he was badly in need of a shave. She tried not to let these observations show in her face as she said hello.
“Not exactly the Ritz in here, is it?”
“It’s not so bad,” Katie replied. “But I can’t say I’m sorry to be leaving. It’ll be good to get home.”
“Is someone coming to pick you up?”
She hesitated, afraid he might give her an argument, but she was ready for him. She would sign herself out if she had to. Anyway, he didn’t look like he would be much of a match for her today. “I’m waiting for the nurse to take me downstairs. Then I’ll take a cab home.”
His dark brows brew together. “But surely there’ll be someone there to meet you when you arrive.”
Katie laughed. Clearly, he had a little fight left in him. “I sincerely hope not. Really, Dr. Shea, I’m perfectly fine. Though I do appreciate your concern.” She could see he was about to pursue the matter, then, defeat clouding his face, he appeared to change his mind. Katie felt a slight disappointment to have won so easily and found herself growing more and more curious about this man standing before her.
“Well, I’ll just bid you goodbye then,” he said, “which is all I really came to do. Take care of yourself, Miss Summers.”
“I will. And thank you.” Gathering up her all-weather coat from the bed, Katie turned to see Dr. Shea still in her doorway. Neither said a word. Then, seemingly on impulse, he whipped a pen and notepad from his breast pocket and proceeded to scribble something down. He tore off the sheet of paper and handed it to her, saying, “My home number. Just in case…in case you need…to talk. I’m not sure how effective I’d be in dealing with any real problems, but I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener.” With that he turned on his heel and was gone, leaving Katie feeling pleased yet bewildered. Why had he spoken in such self-deprecating terms? And why hadn’t he suggested she call him at the hospital?
She folded the piece of paper and was putting it in her purse when Linda Ring entered the room, pushing a wheelchair. “Your limo awaits, m’lady,” she announced brightly.
Once settled in the wheelchair, the basket of fruit sent by the staff from The Coffee Shop, the overnight case, and Jason’s beautiful arrangement of dried flowers on her lap, Katie’s fear of being held here against her will began to disappear. Irrational fears brought her thoughts back to Jason. He had dropped the flowers off at the desk, which was as far as he’d let himself come. She understood. He had an aversion to hospitals and funeral parlors.
“I just saw Dr. Shea coming out of your room,” Linda said, releasing the brake and carefully maneuvering the wheelchair. “How did he seem to you?”
“Pleasant,” Katie said, glancing over her shoulder at the nurse. “He dropped in to say goodbye. Why?”
She shrugged. “Just wondered.” They stopped to allow a little fair-haired boy on crutches wearing a full-leg cast, to hobble past. He stared at Katie. She winked at him. He grinned. Nurse Ring went on, her voice dropping a notch as a clutch of doctors in animated discussion hurried past. “He’s been taking everyone’s head off around here the past few days,” Linda said while, over the intercom, a female voice paged Dr. Jonathan Shea.
An orderly wheeled a noisy gurney past them, on which lay on old woman either asleep or unconscious, the sheet drawn up to her neck. Katie could see pink, freckled scalp through the gray, thin hair. Soft whistling noises emitted from the woman’s nose. Katie looked away.
“He lost a patient last week,” Linda said. “Suicide. Tragic. She was just a kid.”
They went down in the service elevator. As the elevator came to a stop, the wheelchair rolled smoothly out through the open doors, down the wide corridor, turning onto a cement ramp, and finally out into the bleak, gray day where several cabs waited at the curb for fares.
Linda Ring kept up a steady stream of monologue, mostly centered around Dr. Jonathan Shea. How he kept to himself, rarely attending any of the social functions, though rumor had it he was seriously dating some society woman—a woman of “means.” A couple of the nurses had seen her, and reported back that she was a knockout.
Katie felt a little uncomfortable being privy to such personal information about the doctor, who was obviously a favorite topic of conversation among the nurses. God, how women loved to solve the mystery of a man. And wasn’t she just a little curious herself?
The patient’s suicide explained a lot. It saddened her to think of a young girl who found life so painful that death was preferable.
As the cab wheeled around the circular drive where fallen leaves skittered along the gutters and sidewalks, Katie waved goodbye to the slim, white-clad figure.
Soon they were speeding along the highway, and a wave of weakness washed over Katie. She sank back against the maroon cushiony upholstery, hoping she hadn’t been reckless in insisting to Dr. Miller, against his arguments that she be allowed to go home. She would rest better there, she said. In truth, she had her job to think about. She couldn’t afford to be out of work indefinitely. She hoped she still had a job to go to.
Through the car window, the sky hung low and threatening.
Soon the highway ended, and they were on the narrowing road, where tall trees blew darkly in the rising wind. Katie shivered inwardly, knowing a cold house would greet her, and dreading it. Why hadn’t she thought to ask Charlie Black to lay fires in the fireplaces? Well, it was too late to think of that now.
The cabbie was a much faster driver than Katie, and after a long stretch of bumpy, winding road, they were there. The driver got out and came around to open the door for her. “Better have hubby batten down the old hatches tonight,” he said cheerfully, holding onto his cap. His nylon windbreaker billowed in the wind. His pants flapped around his legs.
“Yes, yes, I will,” Katie said, counting out the money to pay him. Thank god, there was just enough in her purse. Maybe Jason wouldn’t mind picking up her last paycheck from work.
“Hubby know you’re comin’ home today?” the driver said, staring up at the darkened windows in the house.
“Yes,” she said quickly. “He should be home from work in another fifteen minutes or so.” Katie wasn’t afraid of living alone, but neither was she fool enough to advertise the fact. The man looked harmless enough, but you couldn’t stake your life on appearances, as her aunt used to say.
“You want some help carrying these things up to the house?”
Katie was about to accept the offer gratefully, then realized it wasn’t gratitude he was interested in. He expected a tip, and right that he should. But unfortunately, she had no more money.
“I can manage. Thanks, anyway.”
He shrugged, clearly miffed, climbed back into his cab, gunned the motor and sped off, spraying gravel in his wake.
Alone now, Katie gazed up at the old farmhouse that stood like a sentinel on a slight rise in the land. Despite its being badly in need of repairs and a paint job, the house was a welcome sight. Even the surrounding trees rustled their leaves as if in greeting.
Katie gathered her belongings from the ground where the cab driver had set them. With the wind cutting through her thin coat and her hair blowing wildly, she trudged up the path and on up the stairs where she deposited her burden on the tiny landing. Fumbling in her purse for the key, she grimaced as one of Jason’s dried flowers was carried off by a gust of wind.
At last her fingers closed around the key. She opened the door and slipped into the familiar hallway with its hardwood floor and dark paneled walls. Her gaze fell for a moment to the leaves littering the hall floor, as if someone had stood here with the door open.
/> Jason. Of course. When he came to get her clothes. Odd, though. Jason usually came in through the back way.
Shrugging, Katie closed the door behind her, hurried on through the rarely used high-ceilinged parlor and dining room, her feet soundless on the carpets. She entered through the French doors to her studio. As she’d expected, the house was damp and cold and smelled musty. She lit a kerosene lamp, and set about making a fire in the fireplace. Katie had the flames crackling and leaping to life in no time, sending shadows to dance on the pale, papered wall.
Hugging her coat to her, she crossed to the sliding glass doors that led out onto the small balcony overlooking the lake. Her favorite spot in nice weather, it now offered little but the cold, and the darkly churning waters below. She drew the heavy drapes closed to keep in the heat.
Placing another log on the fire, Katie left the room to return shortly with a steaming mug of tea. The room had warmed, and Katie slipped out of her coat and settled down in the large stuffed chair in front of the fire.
In the dim, amber light, she looked around at her surroundings, smelled the familiar, soothing smell of paints and turpentine mingling with the scent of the wood-fire. Though everything was as she remembered, she had the feeling of having returned after many years’ absence.
The old Remington typewriter, on which had Aunt Katherine’s own dreams and fantasies had found voice in children’s stories, was on the floor beside the wall bookcase, covered now to keep off the dust. How often Katie had sat in this room putting paint to canvas, listening to the tap-tapping of the typewriter in the background.
She could almost picture her aunt at her desk now, her strong, lovely face softened by lamplight, the wisps of gray hair escaping the bun she always wore at the nape of her neck.
Aunt Katherine had completed only four slim volumes and a few short stories over her lifetime, but the books had gone into reprint many times, and allowed her to live modestly on the royalties. She’d found an equal joy in her gardening, bird-watching and reading, especially Agatha Christie, as she had in writing. She’d lived as she wanted, never marrying, and died quietly in her sleep three years ago at the age of eighty-four. And Katie had never stopped missing her.
Once Katie had asked her why she wrote for children since she never had any of her own, and her aunt had answered simply that her readers were her children. And when Katie asked if she ever got lonely, her eyes had shone with mystery and secrets. “Now and then,” she’d said. And then she’d shared one of those secrets with Katie.
There had been a man—a Matthew Kingsley, an English teacher. He died of tuberculosis in the forties. “I suspect, Katie, dear,” she said, “that I’m one of those impossible women who can truly love only once. I had my love, and no one could ever quite come up to Matthew.” Her twinkling eyes hinted mischief as she added, “And that would hardly be fair to another, now would it?”
Smiling at the memory, and suspecting she was of the same romantic bent as her aunt, and not particularly pleased about it, Katie checked her watch. It was six-fifteen. Darkness came early now. The domed antique clock on the mantle read eleven twenty-five. Katie rose to unwind and set it properly, not only for the correct time, but because she took pleasure in the sound of the chimes. As she did, she heard a car door slam down below. It had to be Jason. He was the only one she knew who drove around the back. A brief unease passed through her, remembering the leaves littering the front hall floor.
She parted the drapes eagerly just in time to see her friend scurrying from his red Volkswagen, the wind whipping his fair, longish hair about his face. Then, he was bounding up the back stairs. She opened the door to greet him. “Oh, Jason,” she cried, “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life. Please, come in before you blow away.”
Inside, they hugged, and Katie reveled in the good, comfortable feel of his cuddly, teddy bear frame. “I’ve made a pot of tea, and there’s a warm fire.”
“Sounds marvelous,” he said breathlessly, unbuttoning his coat. He shrugged out of it and tossed it with Katie’s on the cot. He was smiling at her, his square teeth showing the slight overbite of which he was self conscious, but that Katie found appealing. His figure was, in Jason’s own words, “pleasantly plump.” He wore a roomy, fishnet, turtle-necked sweater and blue jeans.
“I called the hospital,” he said, rubbing his hands together and holding them over the fire. “They said you’d gone. How are you, darling?” He rushed on before she could answer. “You look a little peaked, but not too much the worse for wear. Is there anything serious under that bandage?”
Her hand went automatically to the bandage above her eye. “No. A slight laceration. The doctor says it probably won’t even leave a scar.”
He nodded, beginning to fish into his coat pockets for, Katie knew, his cigarettes. He found them and lit one while Katie went to fetch his partially filled ashtray from the square oak table set against the wall facing the fireplace. She grimaced at its scarred surface strewn with art magazines, pages of sketches and a large peanut butter jar containing her brushes. Her aunt would have been dismayed at her niece’s housekeeping, or lack thereof. Katie dumped the contents of the ashtray into the fireplace and handed it to Jason, who had settled himself in her chair in front of the fire. She pulled up another to join him.
“Sorry I didn’t visit you in the hospital,” he said, “But you know what a ghastly effect they have on me.”
She smiled. “Yeah. On me too. I didn’t have a whole lot of choice.”
“No, you didn’t, did you, dear?” He patted her hand resting on the arm of the chair, then combed his tangled hair with his fingers. “My God, it’s wild out there. Did I bring the right clothes to the hospital?”
“Everything was fine,” she said, stifling a giggle. She’d nearly forgotten how Jason’s mind flittered from one thing to another with barely a pause. She found it endearing, but sometimes it was hard to keep up. Katie suddenly remembered she’d left Jason’s flowers on the front landing, along with everything else. “There probably won’t be a flower left in the vase,” she called after him as he hurried to bring them inside.
Miraculously, most had survived. Jason dropped the overnight case at her feet, set the basket of fruit and the flowers on the table, having to clear a place, then flopped down on the chair. “Well, what’s new, darling?” he blurted. “Silly question. We do have the damnedest conversations, don’t we? My God, Katie, I’m exhausted.”
She laughed. “No wonder. And why don’t you pull your chair up a little closer to the fire, Jason? You still look half frozen to me. Actually, now that you mention it,” she said, going through the small packet of get-well cards in her purse. She found the one she was looking for, and handed it to Jason. “From Allen. What do you think?” It was a particularly pretty card, long and narrow with a single rose on the front, and inside a note that said simply that he was sorry about her accident, and hoped she would feel better soon. Innocent enough on the surface. And thoughtful. Yet she didn’t have a good feeling about it.
Jason was studying the card, frowning. “Humph. He’s not starting up again, is he?”
“I hope not,” Katie said, an understatement.
“It’s been some time since you heard from him.”
“Almost two years.” Katie slipped the card back into her purse wondering why she didn’t just tear it up. Allen Parker was a policeman, a Burt Reynolds lookalike, and the last man with whom she’d had a brief involvement, one that ended with her wishing to God she’d never laid eyes on him. Attracted by his good looks and sense of fun, she’d liked him well enough in the beginning. But it wasn’t long before another side of Allan, one not so pleasant, began to assert itself. He was possessive to the extreme, bullying, questioning her every move, criticizing her friends, accusing her of sneaking around behind his back. Ironically, it was Allen, she found out later, who was doing the sneaking around. When she broke it off, he became enraged. Though not at first. At first came his pleas and promise
s, the blaming of his behavior on job stress, on booze. When none of it worked, he grew obsessed with getting her back. That was when the harassment began. And Katie’s fears for her safety.
Jason had been there for her through it all. She didn’t know what she would have done without him.
The last she’d heard, Allen had been transferred to Los Angeles—at his own request. But the card had a Belleville postmark.
“Forget about it,” Jason advised. “There’s probably nothing ominous about it. The guy just had a monstrous ego; he couldn’t handle your rejecting him. Maybe the card is just his way of apologizing for being such an ass.”
“Maybe.”
“The paper said you ran into a telephone pole,” Jason said, changing the subject. “Seemed off to me, rain or not. You’re usually such a careful driver, Katie.”
She slid her hand along the velvet chair arm. “It’s a strange story, Jason. And of course I’ll tell you everything. But not just now, okay?”
He looked at her for a long moment, arching one blond eyebrow in his long, sensitive face—an artist’s face. “Sure, love. Tactless of me to bring it up. You must be absolutely destroyed.”
“Not absolutely,” she said, smiling. “Anyway, I feel much better now that you’re here. How’s Peter?” Peter Machum was Jason’s live-In lover, had been for ten years now. He was younger than Jason, maybe thirty, dark-haired and slim. Unlike Jason, there was no hint of effeminacy about him, and also unlike Jason, he was shy and withdrawn. Jason said Peter became animated in the courtroom—that he was a fine lawyer.
Listen to the Shadows Page 7
