Aching for Always

by Gwyn Cready

  Hugh saw the light flicker and go out and heard the faint sound of glass breaking, and his heart jumped into his throat.

  In six steps he was across the street and up the steps to the door. He flung the door open and raced up the stairs, half conscious of the sound of water, fighting the pain in his shoulder and terrified for Joss. Halfway to the third floor, he heard the water stop and the word “Joss?” He froze. The voice was Reynolds’s.

  He held his breath, waiting for her answer.

  “Oh, crap, sorry,” she said. “I was trying to surprise you.”

  “What the hell’s going on out there? Are you okay?”

  “Um—”

  The slight pause reignited his anxiety. He kicked off his shoes and flew up the remaining steps, two at a time.

  She was waiting for him when he entered, a finger up to her lips. Then she pointed to a room off the bedroom. She formed a word with her mouth: Rogan.

  On the floor in the room behind her were a few decorative pieces. Had she and Reynolds had a fight? A lamp lay broken on the cabinet top, and the map was on the wall.

  “I’m fine,” she called, apparently to Reynolds, though she looked at Hugh. “I knocked some books off the bedside table.” She picked up the pieces and put them next to the lamp.

  “What are you doing home from Vegas?” Reynolds called back to her.

  “I ended up not going until this morning. Then, my connection in Charlotte kept getting delayed. When they finally canceled it, I decided to head home. I moved the meeting to tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Tell me about it.” She looked at Hugh and shrugged.

  He went to her wordlessly and leaned in to her ear. The faint floral scent she gave off was mixed with fear. “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  “Join me in the bath,” Reynolds said. “I’ll make you feel better.”

  She nodded to Hugh, but he noticed her hands were quaking.

  “Give me a minute,” she called. “I’m going to look for a snack.”

  Hugh could see her pulse in the hollow of her throat. “Is that the map?” he asked.

  She nodded again.

  “Can we take it?”

  Her head gave a little shake. “The frame’s locked to the wall,” she said, barely forming the words. “I was trying to lift it off. That’s what happened.”

  “How are you feeling?” Reynolds called from the bathroom. “I talked to Di. That sounded like a miserable stomach bug.”

  Hugh murmured, “Is there anything unusual on it?” He knew there wasn’t much time.

  “Oh, Jesus, I was puking my guts out!” she shouted. She looked around the room, darted to the bed and came back with a pen, whispering, “Yes. Words. But they’re in Latin. There are a lot.” Her breath tickled his ear.

  “Latin? I don’t read it.”

  “I do, a little.”

  He gazed around for paper, but saw none. He held up his palms in a question. She tried the desk drawers but they were locked. He could hear the sounds of washing. Soon, Reynolds would be reaching the end of his bath.

  Joss’s eyes flicked from the bathroom door to Hugh. She handed him the pen, a light, slim black thing, then turned away and pulled off her shirt.

  Hugh didn’t know which struck him most, her courage or that fine porcelain back. She looked at him over her shoulder and pointed to the area of skin above her shoulder blade.

  Hugh shook his head. “He’ll see it.”

  “No. I’ll put on a nightgown. Hurry, there’s a lot. I’ll translate.”

  Hugh gazed at the pen uncertainly, then tugged at it. It separated into two pieces: a top and a body. Would it write on flesh?

  She turned and nestled against him, putting her mouth near his ear. “I’ll do the best I can. I’m not great. Write what I say.” Hugh tried not to let his eyes linger on the wanton slips of ethereal fabric covering her breasts.

  “My mother’s beside herself about you,” Reynolds said. “Do you think it’s too late to call?”

  “Yeah, probably. I’ll ring her in the morning.”

  She leaned over the file cabinet and began to translate in a hushed voice. Hugh wrote.

  “‘Laocoön followed by a wide—no, large—crowd. Very large.’”

  Hugh was amazed at the rapidity with which the point made its way over her skin. When he got too close to the band of satin, she pulled away and brought her fingers to the clasp at the center of her back and unhooked it. She pulled the straps free and let the whole thing drop to the floor. He swallowed dryly.

  “‘Ran from the fort.’” She ran her finger along the words. “‘And cried—shouted—O unhappy citizens, what fury have you?” ’ Oh my God!”

  Hugh jerked, realizing her exclamation was not a part of the translation. “What?”

  “This is from the Aeneid. It’s the Trojan Horse.” She ran her finger along the lines around the cartouche until see reached the end. “See? ‘Trust not their presents nor admit the horse.’ Dr. Hulick would kill me if I’d forgotten this.”

  “Is anything different?”

  She looked at each line carefully. “I’m not sure exactly. I don’t think so. It looks like the standard text.”

  He heard the gurgle of a drain being unplugged and the rush of water that followed. She froze.

  “Go,” she said, panicked. “We have enough.”

  He handed her the pen, and she scrabbled at the closure on her breeks. He padded to the top of the stairs to the sounds of Reynolds toweling off in the bath. Hugh hurried down the steps, and his last vision of Joss was as she dropped the breeks to the floor, lifted a cotton nightgown over her head and let it fall over her naked body.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The whole thing had happened so fast, Hugh thought, it had taken on the form of a dream in his fever-weary brain. Had she been afraid as he left her? Had Reynolds’s voice carried the false casualness of a man who intended his fiancée harm? Would she bed him? Had Hugh forced her into a situation in which she was left no other choice? Or would she find the assurance she needed in her lover’s arms? Above all else, Hugh prayed she would not discover the truth about Rogan.

  He paced the night shadows across from the silent house, holding his aching shoulder and thinking about the Trojan Horse. He knew the story well enough. It had been one of Maggie’s favorites, after all. And his brother had always loved Virgil’s tales of the sailing Aeneas. But what could the story of that cunning stratagem tell him about the lost map? Had Brand hidden it in a horse? Or did Reynolds represent the Greeks, who were not to be trusted?

  He held his arm tight against his side and waited for something—anything—to happen that would give him a reason to fly up the stairs again and carry her away.

  But none came. And when the moon reached its zenith, he dug the pills out of his pocket, swallowed two as Joss had instructed and settled onto the cold ground to wait for morning.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Joss emerged into the cool Sunday morning air of Fourth Street feeling as if she were leaving a life behind. Rogan had been perfectly wonderful, but she’d felt like she was lying in bed next to a stranger. So much had changed in the last two days, it was if she’d been set adrift in some vast ocean and forced not only to find her way but to depend on instincts she didn’t even know she had.

  Which is why she’d wakened him at five to tell him she wanted to delay the wedding.

  He’d been shocked, and had tried to coax a reason out of her, but he had to settle for a tearful “I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right.” And he had settled for it, telling her he’d put her up at the William Penn Hotel until she decided what she wanted to do. So she’d dressed, bade him a regretful good-bye and started out to find what the next few days would bring.

  The translation, or at least the start of it, was still on her back. She’d taken care to keep that side of her out of Rogan’s view all night and now found herself eager to find Hugh—more eager than she wo
uld have expected—to figure out what, if anything, the excerpt from the Aeneid meant.

  The idea that helping Hugh find the missing map would lead to an earth-shattering change for her did not scare her anymore. Sometime in the night, she’d found peace with the notion that she’d be setting to right the wrongs of her father. It was something she had always wanted to do, and life, at last, had brought her the opportunity to do it.

  The only part that hurt—the only part—was the idea that somehow she’d been wrong about Rogan. She thought back to that chance meeting in the diner. The man she’d met there, the man who met her outside the hospital the next morning—that man could not be capable of violence against another. Of that she was as certain as she was about anything she had ever known. Something had changed. She didn’t know what.

  She wasn’t willing to let go of Rogan, but she wasn’t willing to move forward with him, either. She didn’t know what she wanted. But something told her that helping to right the wrongs of the past would give her some answers about the future.

  She lifted her lapels against the wind. For the first time, she set off for the day not knowing where the carefully mapped path of her life was leading. It was both terrifying and exhilarating.

  Despite a careful scan of the street, she found no signs of Hugh. It was foolish to let this worry her, she thought. He hadn’t said he’d meet her here. Hell, they’d barely had time to say anything. Nonetheless, she’d spent the night thinking he had stayed close. She had to admit she’d taken some comfort in this fact. She remembered the feeling of his hands on her back as he wrote, and a charge went through her.

  Her phone rang. It was Di.

  “Jeez, isn’t it a little early?” Joss said. “How did things go in Vegas?”

  “Yes, but women in their thirty-sixth week never sleep, and things went great. I saved your sorry ass. The deal’s a go.”

  “Yay! You’re wonderful. I knew I could count on you. Thank you for being able to go at the last minute.”

  Di had been the last call Joss made before she returned to the alley a day and a half ago with the pills in her pocket.

  “Omigod, I was thrilled. Two nights away from the kids? I would have happily paid you. And you know David’s mother: she was glad to help out—as long as I promised I was coming back, that is. The only trick was sneaking onto the plane. Say, do you think if I have the baby here I can parlay it into some windfall—you know, like offer to name it Steve Wynn or Bellagio or something?”

  “I thought Peter was counting on Storm Trooper.”

  “For a middle name. And nothing says, ‘I’m a force to be reckoned with’ like Bellagio Storm Trooper. But speaking of your sorry ass, how sorry is your ass today?”

  Joss knew this was going to be a tough conversation. “Pretty sorry, actually, but not for the reason you’d expect.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I, um, delayed the wedding.”

  “What?”

  “Look, nothing’s happened with Hugh.” Make that: Nothing’s happened with Hugh I could possibly explain, even to myself. “I just think I’m not ready.”

  “Joss, c’mon. What happened? You disappeared for two days. Were you with Hugh?”

  “Yes.” Joss found herself examining the heads of the pedestrians in front of her, hoping she’d spot Hugh’s dark hair and instantly recognizable shoulders. She also found herself checking out the sidewalks as she walked, looking for pools of blood.

  “And?”

  “I told you, nothing happened.”

  “Joss, you do not spend two days with a man and then cancel your wedding if nothing happened. Something had to have happened.”

  She thought about Di’s words. She wished she’d had more experience with men. Rogan was it, except for a couple casual boyfriends in college.

  “Listen to me, Joss. Are you going to see Hugh today?”

  “Yes.” She sure hoped she would.

  “Find out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, find out what your feelings are. For Rogan’s sake. For your own. If you’d been married ten years, I’d say you were bored. But, Joss, to feel this way when you’ve been dating only three months . . . Something’s up. You have to find out.”

  “Mr. Mistake, huh?”

  “No, Joss. Mr. Save-You-From-Mr.-Mistake. Find out.”

  Hugh counted to thirty after Joss had passed him on Fourth, then emerged from the shadows. Rogan had not hurt her, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t follow her, and the last thing Hugh wanted was for Rogan to find his fiancée with the man he wanted to kill. Hugh waited until she’d reached the end of the block and was just about to step into the street when he saw Reynolds exit the house. Wealth, happiness, power—every aspect of the man’s carriage inflamed Hugh’s hunger for revenge, and he felt his hand once again closing over the timepiece in his pocket. Hugh returned to his hiding place, but Rogan headed quickly east on Fourth, not west as Joss had. Hugh considered his options, then began to make his way in the direction of the rising sun.

  Joss exited the coffee shop, listening to Di describe the terms necessary to close the deal in Las Vegas, when she spotted Rogan walking down Grant, away from his office and the USX Tower.

  Joss paused, a sickening sort of feeling rising in her gut. He couldn’t possibly be heading toward Hugh and the tailor shop, could he? His path seemed to be taking him right toward the alley.

  She covered the phone. “Rogan?”

  He turned, and when he saw her he stopped, concerned.

  Joss put the phone back up to her ear. “I need to call you back.”

  Hugh saw Reynolds turn. Then he spotted Joss. She ran up to her fiancé and touched his arm. The gesture sent a jab of pain through Hugh’s heart, and he realized that after last night’s shared intrigue, he’d assumed her feelings for Reynolds had changed. It had been a foolish assumption, clouded by hope rather than informed by facts. There had just been something about the way she closed the door to the house that morning that made Hugh think she’d closed the door on Reynolds as well.

  Joss’s interaction with Reynolds appeared cordial, if restrained. Each seemed to be watching the area around them to ensure no passerby could overhear. A moment later Joss pulled Reynolds away from the people walking past, as if what she had to say were for his ears only. She tilted her head toward the alley. He shook his head. She nodded more forcibly. The conversation appeared to be ending. He touched her sleeve and let his hand drift down to hers. She squeezed it, and when he leaned in to kiss her, Hugh had to turn away.

  It was exactly as it should be, he reminded himself. They were affianced. She’d never led him to believe anything else.

  When he turned back, Joss was crossing Grant in the direction of the USX Tower, and Reynolds was watching her. Hugh didn’t know which hurt him more—the way Reynolds looked at Joss as if his world were tied up in every step she took, or the way he himself watched Reynolds, praying that one day he might feel the same connection to Joss.

  She disappeared into the tower, and Hugh expected Reynolds to continue his walk along Grant. But Reynolds stuffed his hands into his pockets and sauntered down the alley. Hugh trotted to the corner and watched until he reached the tailor shop. Reynolds looked both ways, tried the door of the shop, then lifted his foot and broke the lock.

  Hugh felt as if he’d been kicked himself. Rogan’s act did not surprise him, but coming on the heels of that short, intimate conversation, it forced Hugh to ask himself exactly what secret Joss had just whispered in her fiancé’s ear.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Joss stepped off the elevator feeling like a jerk. When she’d spotted Rogan heading across the street toward the alley, and all she could think of was the vision she’d had at the edge of the dome. She’d called to him, expecting, well, she wasn’t sure what, and all he’d done was look happy to see her and say that he understood if she was confused and that he’d wait for her as long as it took. With a wave of guilt big enough to surf o
n, she’d thanked him and sent him on his way, toward a meeting on the other side of town.

  That’s where lying to your boyfriend gets you.

  She waved to the weekend guard when the doors opened, started down the empty halls of Brand O’Malley and punched up Di’s number again.

  “Yep, sorry. Where were we?”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh . . . Rogan.”

  “Is he mad?”

  “No, he’s perfectly supportive. God, I feel awful.”

  “But it’s better you take the time now to figure this out rather than later. Believe me.”

  “I guess.”

  “Happily, I will get to lighten your awfulness as I lie here, dropping fresh strawberries into my mouth and reveling in the fact that there is absolutely no one in this king-size bed with me. The guy in Vegas wants to look at the inventory to see if they can move any of the old stuff. Was that old scanning project ever restarted?”

  Joss stopped. She had totally forgotten about the scanning project. It was one her mother had started right before she fell ill, a catalog of company assets. Her father had insisted she pull the plug on it in a series of cost-cutting moves, and now it sat unfinished, on some ancient hard drive somewhere, waiting for a time when Brand O’Malley had the funds and/or interest to start it up again.

  “No,” Joss said, her mind going in a thousand directions. “You’ll have to get someone to pull what they need, one at a time, from the warehouse. Say, can I call you back?”

  “Again? Is it Rogan?”

  “No.”

  “Hugh?”

  “Maybe both. Unlike your bed, mine seems a little too full.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Joss jogged down the steps outside the USX Tower, feeling something odd in the air. She hitched her orange tote over her shoulder, lifting her gaze automatically to the beacon at the top of the Gulf Tower. No falling sparks. Not today. Nor, she thought, looking around at the sparsely populated plaza outside the building, any sign of Hugh. Her anxiety, tempered by the concentration the task upstairs had required, now began to grow unchecked. She had something she wanted to show him, thinking of the paper rolled up in the tube in her tote, but mostly, she just wanted to make sure he was alive and breathing.