Delaney's Shadow

by Ingrid Weaver

  The vision in his head jumped, as if she had felt his touch.

  He frowned, concentrating on steadying the image he saw, but it continued to shift. The ivory nightgown gradually darkened until it was the color of ripe wheat. Satin became cotton that expanded to conceal her shoulders and arms. A flared chambray skirt covered her legs to the tops of her calves. She took a hesitant step toward him, then stopped and shoved her hands into her pockets. She was no longer standing on a cloud. She was on a weedy embankment in front of a backdrop of trees.

  Max recognized the scene immediately. He dropped his brush into the water jar and strode to the north window.

  A woman in a yellow drawstring blouse and blue chambray skirt stood on the old rail bed at the back of his property. She was too far away for him to see her face. A broad-brimmed sun hat hid most of her features anyway. But he felt it was Deedee.

  Had he drawn her to him by concentrating on her image? Why hadn’t he sensed her approach?

  He knew the answer to the second question. He’d been caught up in his vision of her, so he’d already felt as if she was with him. He wouldn’t have noticed that her presence had grown stronger. She wasn’t reaching out to him, though. Her thoughts were drawn in like a pursed mouth.

  She’d been that way for two days, ever since their mind-kiss. He’d assumed her caution would wear off, but it hadn’t. He’d had to content himself with memories and canvas.

  But she wasn’t in his head, she was outside his home. The breeze rippled her skirt against her legs. She took one hand from her pocket to hold her hat on her head. She seemed to be studying the house.

  He wiped his fingers on his T-shirt and went downstairs. The inside back door stood open to the deck. Through the screen door he could see she hadn’t moved from her vantage point.

  What the hell was she doing here? How could she have known where he lived? More to the point, how could she have known that he even existed? She still believed he was only a figment of her imagination, didn’t she?

  He braced his hands on either side of the doorframe. His palms were sweating and slid over the wood. He experienced the same adrenaline rush he felt when he drove past her house, only the stakes had been raised. This was more than tempting fate; she was actually here, in the flesh. His muscles tightened to the brink of pain.

  Only, it wasn’t just his muscles that ached. The bulk of the pain came from a deeper source, a place he hadn’t tapped for decades. It was the eagerness of a boy who wouldn’t have thought twice about racing across the yard to welcome her. A lonely boy who had been happy to invite his friend into his heart. A naive child who’d known no caution when it came to love.

  A reckless, needy fool.

  That wasn’t him. Damn, it couldn’t be.

  Yet he couldn’t look away. His pulse was roaring so hard it sounded like the ocean. For the first time in almost twenty-eight years he was seeing Deedee with his own eyes, without the filter of their minds to dilute his vision. Only a few millimeters of screening and thirty yards of dirt that refused to grow a lawn stood between them.

  Instead of thinking of the pain, he thought of how her eyes sparkled and how sweet her mind felt when he touched it and how for a few precious heartbeats during their kiss he’d no longer been alone.

  She turned away.

  Max pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the deck. “Deedee!”

  She couldn’t have heard him. At that moment, two boys on bicycles sped past her along the rail bed. They whooped at each other and stood on their pedals to go faster, their front wheels wobbling, the striped beach towels that they’d tied around their necks billowing behind them.

  Max jumped off the deck and ran across the yard. “Deedee?”

  She was already at the trees. The slope of the embankment hid all but the top of her sun hat from his view.

  Pain stabbed through his left foot. He hopped on his right and twisted his leg to check his heel. A narrow shard of brown glass was embedded in his skin. It appeared to be from the bottom of a broken beer bottle. Blood welled from either side of the glass and dripped to the dirt.

  He knew people tossed garbage as they passed his yard. Sometimes kids deliberately targeted his place, egging one another on to see what kind of reaction they’d get out of the big, bad ex-con, but like an idiot he’d run outside without putting on any shoes.

  What the hell had he been thinking? He was nothing to her. She hadn’t come to see him. Her mind had been closed. She’d probably just been taking a walk.

  “Idiot,” he muttered. “Goddamn moron.” He yanked out the glass, hurled it into the nearest clump of weeds, and limped back into the house. He snorted when he saw the red smears he left on the floor. The footprints were real blood this time instead of paint, graphic reminders of the lesson he’d already learned. This was what happened when he forgot. It hurt.

  He grabbed the first aid kit he kept with his tools and doused the wound mercilessly with rubbing alcohol, then slapped on a bandage and wrapped it tightly in gauze. He left no trail when he retraced his steps as far as the deck. He didn’t go any farther. For what he intended, he didn’t need to.

  This time, he called to her silently. Deedee!

  Her image flickered across his brain. He saw the reflection of water beyond her. She was approaching the pond.

  He concentrated on the willow where he used to hide from Virgil. The instant he felt her near it, he followed her thoughts into her head and placed himself on the path in front of her.

  She stumbled to a halt. She appeared to study his features, then glanced at his hair before she spoke. “Max?”

  He shoved his hair out of his eyes. “Who else would it be?”

  The question seemed to disturb her. She extended one hand to touch his arm, as if testing whether he was actually there. Her other hand fisted in her pocket, making a hard lump beneath the soft chambray of her skirt. “Why would you ask me that? What do you mean?”

  “Dammit, Deedee, how many imaginary friends do you have?”

  She closed her eyes tightly and breathed deeply through her nose.

  The woods around her started to blur. Max dug in mentally and folded his arms over his chest to wait her out. “Save your energy. I’m not going anywhere.”

  She blinked. “You’re in a foul mood. Did I wake you up again?”

  “How could you? You weren’t looking for me.”

  “But you’re here anyway.” She paused. Her eyes widened. “You have paint all over your T-shirt.”

  “So?”

  “Why? Were you painting?”

  “Was I? You made me up. You tell me.”

  “I found you here before. You often seem to come from this direction. Why?”

  “Only you can answer that, Deedee. I’m your fantasy.”

  She gritted her teeth and looked past him. “That’s right. You’re a fantasy. You wouldn’t live in any particular place. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

  “Why not? Don’t you have any more use for me?”

  “Max—”

  “Did your memories all come back? Is that it? You don’t need my help anymore, so away I go into the mental toy cupboard until the next time you find yourself short of friends.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She reached for his arm. “Max, no. I’ve hurt your feelings again. I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to keep sane.”

  Heat sparked along his skin where she imagined touching him. “Sane?”

  “I’m relying on you too much. This isn’t normal.”

  “Says who?”

  “I realize I was the one who brought you back into my life, but I think that was a mistake.”

  A week ago, he would have agreed. Hell, it was what he’d tried to tell her. The fact that he now wanted to argue proved what an idiot he was. He raised his hands to cup his palms around the image of her face. “I warned you not to stir up the past.”

  “You weren’t like this in the past.”

  “I warned you about that, t
oo, but you kept haunting me. Now it’s my turn.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “This imaginary friend shit works both ways. I don’t exist merely for your convenience.”

  Her breathing grew shallow. “I should be concentrating on my husband. It’s him I want to remember.”

  “I can’t see why. Doesn’t seem to me you have many good memories of him.”

  “That’s not fair. I was married to Stanford. He was real. You’re not even here.”

  “And that’s the only reason you want to see me. It’s why you allowed me into your bed, and why you’re letting me touch you now.”

  “Max—”

  “You don’t want this to be a flesh-and-blood relationship any more than I do.”

  “Why are you saying this? I know you’re only fantasy. That’s the point I’ve been trying to make.”

  “And you’re the one who brought me back, Deedee, just like you said. I’m not ready to be packed away yet. I can be wherever you are.”

  “But I have to focus on reality.”

  Max brought his mouth to where he saw hers. “Focus on this.”

  It was a kiss of frustration more than passion, and it wasn’t gentle. He could feel her uncertainty as he probed their connection, but he didn’t pause to temper his strength as he had before. If he had, his logic might reassert itself and stop him. This was only desire. Not love, not caring. And since this was the only bond he would allow himself to have with her, he was going to make the most of it.

  Deedee was capable of pushing him away; she’d done it before. Yet instead of resisting, within seconds she joined in the image he was building, sliding her hands to his shoulders as she reached to meet him. She opened her mind with a soundless moan. In her thoughts, her tongue stroked his, searing her taste across his nerves.

  The first ripple of pleasure swept aside any remaining caution. Damn, he should have thought of this sooner. Some mutual enjoyment wasn’t going to hurt either of them. She didn’t have to understand where it came from to feel it. She swayed where she stood, her body trembling with the same reaction she was arousing in him.

  He knelt at the base of the tree and beckoned her downward. “Come with me.”

  She slid her back down the trunk. “I can’t believe this is happening again. It’s broad daylight. I’ve gone over the edge, haven’t I?”

  “No, Deedee. You’re just doing what comes naturally.” He waited until she sat on a patch of soft moss. “Close your eyes.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll make it real. You know how. See what I see.”

  Her eyelids fluttered shut. “Max?”

  He pictured a garden of wildflowers around them. It widened to a meadow, with daisies and buttercups and chicory swaying in the warm breeze. Clouds scudded across the sky overhead. No trees blocked their view of it. Nothing else existed except the meadow and the sky. And the two of them.

  “Max, where are we?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s beautiful, but—”

  “Don’t analyze, Deedee.” He imagined undoing the drawstring at the front of her blouse and easing the neckline apart. “Just feel.”

  Her breath escaped on a strangled gasp. “Max!”

  “That’s it.” He drew the fabric to one side to bare her good shoulder. He smiled when he discovered she wore a camisole instead of a bra. He slid the strap down her arm. “Feel the sunshine on your skin. Feel the breeze.”

  She arched her back. Her blouse and camisole melted away.

  His smile widened. She’d done that, not him. He cupped her breasts. “Do you feel my fingers?”

  “Oh, God. How are you doing this?”

  “We both are, Deedee.” The vision solidified as her mind added its power to his. He stretched out amid the wildflowers and drew her down on top of him. Her hat fell to the ground beside them. “Think of it as a new game.”

  “You’re not angry anymore.”

  “I wasn’t angry at you.”

  “You were.”

  “I was frustrated by the situation.” He sifted his fingers through her hair. Though it was short, the fine strands were as sensuous as silk. “I didn’t want to miss you, but I did. I can’t stop thinking about the last time we kissed.”

  She tipped her head into his caress. “I can’t, either. I didn’t really want to keep you away; I just thought . . . it was sensible. The right thing to do.”

  “Doesn’t this feel right?”

  She ran her palms over his shoulders and down his arms. Her fingers curled around his biceps. “It feels wonderful. You feel wonderful.”

  He remembered how her nightgown had clung to her nipples, then pictured the tight bud between his fingers. He rubbed his thumb across it.

  “Oh!”

  Her pleasure intensified his. He rolled her to her back. The sunlight hid nothing. The burn scars were jagged pink blotches scattered with raised lines of white. He traced them with his lips, placing gentle kisses from her elbow to her shoulder and down to her breast. Then he lifted her breast in his palm and closed his mouth over the tip.

  He couldn’t name the colors that swirled through the air around them. He’d never seen any so pure. They were the embodiment of Deedee’s passion. They swept him out of himself and into her.

  It wasn’t really sex. It was an intimacy that reached a deeper level. And if it lacked the physical release of a flesh-and-blood connection, that was a fair trade-off. Touching Deedee like this was still better than not touching her at all.

  Her chest heaved with a sob.

  He lifted his head. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve lost my mind.”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “I’ve admitted sex was an issue. I’ve faced the fact it wasn’t good with Stanford. I didn’t need another fantasy orgasm to prove it to myself. And we didn’t even have sex. All you did was kiss me . . . but that wasn’t actually a kiss because we don’t touch and . . . this isn’t me.”

  “It’s the real you. The one you keep inside.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because I felt you, Deedee.”

  She draped her forearm across her eyes. “Delaney.”

  “What?”

  “Call me Delaney. I’m grown-up. I’m not the little girl I used to be. I’m an adult.”

  He reached past her and snapped the blossom of a daisy from its stem. He stroked the petals along the underside of her arm and across her chest.

  She moaned. “How can that feel so good? I know it’s only my imagination.”

  “You’re trying to analyze again.”

  “That’s what adults do. Sane, rational adults.”

  “You’re not insane, Delaney.”

  She lowered her arm. Moisture had pooled in her eyes. “That’s a hell of an endorsement, coming from a fantasy. I can’t wait to tell Dr. Bernhardt.”

  Max wasn’t accustomed to feeling guilt. It was uncomfortable. He’d already worked this out. She was using him, so he had every right to use her. If she was distressed about what she called a fantasy, she’d brought it on herself, because she was the one who had chosen to believe he wasn’t real . . .

  No, that was bullshit, and he knew it. If he’d stopped to put on a pair of shoes, he could have settled her doubts about her mental stability twenty minutes ago.

  The flower melted from his hand as the meadow dimmed. The vision was fading because she had stopped supporting it. Max let the image dissolve and squatted beside her. “Consider it a daydream.”

  She hiccuped. The willow appeared behind her. She was once again sitting on the moss, her blouse fastened, her skirt draped over her legs, just as she’d been the entire time. “Sure.”

  “There’s nothing crazy about daydreams.”

  “If you say so.” She picked up her hat and crammed it on her head, then looked past him. “We’re at the pond.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t like the water.”

  “Next
time, I’ll come to you when you’re somewhere more private.”

  “Next time? I don’t know what happened this time. I must be certifiable.”

  He placed his fingertip at the corner of her eye. He could sense the moisture from her tears, but he couldn’t wipe it away. Not here. “Don’t cry, Deedee.”

  Her lips trembled. She pressed them together and dropped her head back against the tree. “You know what’s really crazy?”

  “What?”

  “This all feels familiar.”

  “What does?”

  “The pond. The make-believe world you took me to.” She shifted her gaze to his face. “You telling me not to cry. I remember . . .”

  He waited, but she said nothing more. “What do you remember, Deedee?”

  “My grandmother calling me. But I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay and play with you, Max.”

  The boy inside him, that pathetic fool who didn’t know any better, lifted his head to smile with eagerness.

  Max ignored him. He stroked her breast in the same place he’d smoothed the paint on the canvas. “I like our new game, Delaney.”

  She touched her tongue to her lips. “Uh, Max . . .”

  “You seemed to enjoy it, too.”

  “A bit too much. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “You’re afraid of pleasure?”

  “I don’t deserve it. I created you to help recover my memories, not resurrect my sex drive or—” She broke off as a blue jay squawked from the woods. “But you are stirring up my memories. Almost every time I see you, something else floats to the surface.”

  “That’s because you’re letting go.”

  “Of my sanity.”

  “Of your shackles. Trust your mind, Deedee. You’re stronger than you think.”

  “Shackles,” she repeated. She tugged at the hem of her skirt, then brushed her hand over her ankles. She looked at the pond again. “It’s strange that you used that word. At times I do feel as if the past is holding on to me.”