“I prefer the present.”
She didn’t appear to be listening. Her face, normally pale, lost the rest of its color. “I hate the smell of mud. I remember how it sucked at my shoes and wouldn’t let me go. In my nightmare I can’t move my legs because the seaweed wraps around them. It holds me under the water.”
Images flashed across his vision. Some were from her mind, some were from his own memories. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Deedee. You’re okay now.”
“You said that before. I remember your voice. You held me and said I was okay, but I was so cold and wet and I could taste the mud in my mouth and nose.” She wrapped her arms around her legs and rocked back and forth. Her gaze was riveted on the water. “I was in there. It was black and slimy. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I can remember the feelings, Max. They’re too real for a nightmare.”
“It was real.”
“You said that last week. You said I almost drowned. I nearly died.” She released her hold on her legs and suddenly stood. She walked straight to the edge of the pond.
Max followed. “Be careful. There’s a drop-off.”
“The water went over my head. It was so dark and I was so scared . . .” The soles of her sandals sank into the mud. Water lapped at her toes. Her entire body was shaking.
“Delaney!” Alarm gave extra force to his mental shout. Unlike the other time, he wouldn’t be able to help her if she got into trouble now. Thoughts alone wouldn’t pull her out of the water. “Stop!”
She backed up fast and turned to face him. “It did happen. My God, you were telling me the truth!”
“I usually do. Sometimes you choose not to hear it.”
FOURTEEN
DELANEY PLUCKED OFF A DEAD PETUNIA BLOOM AND tossed it into the plastic bucket she’d taken from the garden shed. The bottom was already covered with papery brown seed heads, and she’d done only half the flower boxes along the veranda. It took patience to find the spent blooms amid the spill of purple and white flowers. They were well camouflaged and not easy to spot, but it was worth the effort to remove them. Otherwise the plant’s health would deteriorate and it would stop producing new flowers.
There was a lesson in that idea somewhere. The tangle of stems and leaves could represent her memories. Some needed to be exposed so that others could emerge. It took patience, but bit by bit the job would get done. And afterward . . .
What? Her mind would become a well-ordered planter box of peppery-smelling purple and white? Then where did Max fit into the picture? Was he the gardener? His presence had definitely helped her unlock the past. She’d made no progress at all during the time she’d tried to shut him out, so that had been a mistake. He must be a necessary part of her recovery. She should accept where her subconscious was leading her, no matter how . . . disturbing the side effects were.
Disturbing? That was an understatement. Max was one sexy gardener.
Remembering she had almost drowned had been a huge step forward. Because of that, she had decided not to let the pleasure she got from her encounters with Max send her into a panic. She wasn’t going to try contacting Dr. Bernhardt again, either, because there was a logical explanation for those sexual fantasies. She probably needed to stir up her more primitive desires in order to stimulate her memories. It was a way to get rid of her shackles, as Max had said.
“That’s looking better already, Delaney.”
She straightened as Helen stepped onto the veranda. “I’m enjoying it. It reminds me of the planter that Dad and I had on the apartment balcony. We always had petunias, too.”
“They’re hardy plants, which is why I like them. Not very fancy, though.”
“I think they’re perfect. They suit the house.”
“They do perk it up.” She shielded her eyes to look toward the road, then started down the front steps. “It seems as if we got mail.”
“I can get it for you,” Delaney said.
“After that pecan loaf you made for breakfast, I need the exercise.”
Delaney peeled off her gardening gloves and left them beside the bucket. “Then I’ll walk to the mailbox with you. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about, anyway.”
Helen strolled along the path to the driveway at a sedate pace, despite her remark about exercise. “What’s on your mind? Has Elizabeth been bothering you again?”
“No, this has nothing to do with her, or even with Stanford. It’s about the years I lived here.”
“All right, shoot.”
Delaney hesitated. She wasn’t sure how to lead into this topic. If her grandparents had known about her near-drowning, they had apparently covered it up. “I went for a walk past the pond yesterday.”
“I wondered where you’d gotten to.”
“Lately I’ve felt . . . drawn to it. I hadn’t understood why before, but now I’m suspecting my subconscious was trying to give me a message, because while I was there, I remembered being in the water.”
“Are you sure?”
“It was a very vivid memory. I remembered the sensations more than the facts. It felt as if I was drowning. Could I have fallen in when I was little?”
Helen walked a few paces in silence before she replied. “I find it incredible that you would remember. You were only a toddler.”
Delaney had known in her heart that the memory had been real, but it was good to hear it confirmed. At least some parts of her mind could still be trusted. “Then it is true?”
“That you fell in? From what we pieced together, you did.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “It seems easy to say now, but we were never so scared in our lives.”
“How did it happen?”
“Your grandfather was watching you play in the backyard, but it was a hot day and he fell asleep in his chair. By the time he woke up, you were gone.”
“Poor Grandpa. He must have been frantic.”
“He wasn’t at first. He’d assumed you had run back into the house to your mother’s room. She’d been at the hospital for another round of chemo, but you liked to play under her bed sometimes, you pretended it was a castle, so we wasted time checking there first. We hadn’t guessed you would have gone in the other direction.”
“I’m sorry I worried you.”
“It was our fault from start to finish. By the time we thought to check the woods, we were in a panic. We found you a few yards from the shore of the pond. You were soaking wet from head to toe and had pond slime all over your legs so it was plain you had fallen in. It was a miracle you managed to pull yourself out. The bottom drops off fast, and that water was so muddy, we never would have found you if—” Her voice broke. She halted and shook her head.
Delaney put her arm around Helen’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, Grandma. I didn’t mean to upset you by bringing this up.”
“I haven’t thought about it in years, but those feelings are still fresh. We could have lost you, and it would have been our fault.”
“It wouldn’t have been anyone’s fault. Accidents happen.” Even as she said the words, she heard an echo of Helen telling her the same thing about the accident that had killed Stanford. The words were easy to say. Believing them was harder.
“We had Edgar install the fence the next day. We should have done it sooner.”
“I do remember you and Grandpa both cautioned me about staying away from the pond. You made sure it wouldn’t happen again.”
“Oh, we did that, all right. We probably scared the bejesus out of you.”
They had. She’d believed it was their strict warnings that had led her to develop an aversion to water. While the warnings had played a part, it appeared the root of her fear had been far more direct. “I deserved it.”
“Nonsense, you were only being a child. It was our responsibility to ensure your safety, and we had failed.”
“But nothing happened. Everything turned out fine. Please, don’t feel bad, Grandma. It was a long time ago.”
Helen made an erasing motion with he
r hands, then linked her arm with Delaney’s as they resumed their progress toward the road. “You’re right. It’s been close to thirty years. I’m amazed that you remembered.”
“So am I, actually.”
“You didn’t want to talk about it afterward, and you absolutely refused to tell us how you got out of the water. We didn’t insist because we thought your mind had preferred to blank the whole incident out of self-defense.”
“That’s probably what happened. I did the same thing with my memories of the crash.”
Helen glanced at her. “I suppose this is another example of how we encouraged you to ignore what hurt you and pretend everything was fine.”
Although Delaney hastened to reassure her grandmother that they’d done the right thing, she didn’t believe it. Forgetting about the incident at the pond had been the easy way out, and because it hadn’t been dealt with, the memory had festered. It likely had established the pattern that she’d repeated later. Not that she could blame her grandparents. They’d done what they’d thought best.
This did explain one of the key elements of her nightmare. The answer had been staring her in the face for months, but she’d reasoned her way around it. Hopefully, now that she knew the truth, the other memories she’d suppressed would be able to come out as well. As Max had told her, both the fire and the water had been real. She’d dreamed about dying because she almost had. Both times.
No, she reminded herself. It hadn’t been Max who had told her; it had been her own subconscious. The trauma of nearly drowning must have caused her mind to create her imaginary friend. That must be why he’d appeared so vividly to her when she’d been near the pond . . . and when he’d laid her down in the field of wildflowers.
She slid her hand into her skirt pocket to touch the photo of Max. Correction, John Harrison. She’d cut the picture out of the gallery brochure, and now the edges were already feeling worn from repeated handling. He’d been the real reason she’d braved the walk past the pond. She’d wanted to see for herself where he lived. She’d hoped that would put her fantasy in perspective, but it hadn’t worked out that way.
The moment she’d seen the house, Max’s presence had become almost tangible. It had seemed like a place he might live, if he’d been real. Unlike the fussy, Victorian-era houses in the old section of town, John Harrison’s place had been an unadorned octagon of cedar shingles and glass. It gave the impression of strength without showiness, as if the structure had been honed to the basics the same way his face had. At first glance, it didn’t appear inviting, yet the more she’d looked, the more she’d wanted to cross the yard and . . .
And what? Knock on a stranger’s door and tell him she had given his face to her imaginary lover? It was a good thing she’d restrained herself, especially in light of the fantasy she’d experienced on her way home. Good Lord, what if she’d behaved that way in the presence of a real man?
“This one’s for you,” Helen said.
Delaney returned her attention to her grandmother. She had taken a stack of envelopes from the mailbox and was holding out a large, padded mailing envelope.
Someone honked a greeting as they drove past on the road. Helen handed her the mailer, then turned to wave at a couple in a blue sedan.
Delaney gave the envelope a cursory glance, saw it bore a New York postmark, and assumed Leo was sending her more legal documents. She couldn’t think of anyone else from the city who would address mail here. Whatever he’d sent would keep until later, she decided, tucking the envelope against her side. She fell into step with Helen as they started back up the driveway.
“That was the Reids,” Helen said. “I heard they bought a cottage on the east side of the lake.”
“There’ll be two less customers for you next summer.”
“Not necessarily. Once they start telling their friends about the lake, there’ll be more people than ever who’ll need a place to stay in Willowbank.”
“Edgar said there were a lot of new people moving in.”
“The town’s growing. I hope it doesn’t grow to the stage that it loses its charm.”
She fingered the photo in her pocket. Helen had just given her the perfect opening to raise the other topic she’d wanted to discuss. “Phoebe told me that you have a famous neighbor. An artist.”
“Ah, you must mean John Harrison.”
She nodded.
“He’s not that close a neighbor. He built his house on the site of the old trailer park past the woods.”
“I saw it on my walk yesterday. It’s . . . intriguing. The second story is nearly all glass.”
“Actually, it’s Plexiglas. John had to replace the regular glass a few years ago after someone threw rocks through the windows one Halloween.”
“That’s awful.”
“It’s shameful behavior. The kids have made him into the local boogeyman.” She glanced at Delaney. “I imagine Phoebe told you he’d been to prison?”
“She said he’d tried to kill his mother. Is that true?”
Her expression tightened. “Partly. It was his stepfather who got the worst of the beating when he tried to defend her. He was in a coma for months. I followed the story quite closely when John was arrested. It must be going on twenty years ago now. The crime shocked the entire town.”
“It’s hard to believe anything like that could have happened here.”
“I found it hard to believe myself. He was only a teenager. We don’t want to think that someone so young could be capable of such violence, but there was no mistake. His trial ended when he changed his plea to guilty.”
Delaney had been hoping her grandmother would deny what Phoebe had said. Instead, she’d made it worse.
But they weren’t talking about Max. It shouldn’t matter. “What happened to his mother?”
“I don’t know. Apparently, she and her husband moved away after he got out of the hospital. John was in prison by then. It was a real tragedy.”
“You called him John,” she said. “Have you met him?”
“Yes, we met a few times shortly after he moved in, but I don’t know him well. He’s a bit of a recluse, which is understandable, considering the opposition he faced when he decided to settle here. People can be such asses.” She clicked her tongue. “Including me. I shouldn’t be gossiping. What’s this? Another Bible pamphlet. That’s the third one this week. And will you look at all these bills?”
Helen shuffled the envelopes she was carrying and launched into a complaint about the latest tax levy. The subject of her notorious neighbor was obviously closed.
That was for the best, Delaney decided as they returned to the house. She wasn’t sure why she was still carrying Harrison’s picture around. She understood that his resemblance to Max was arbitrary—her subconscious could have snagged someone else’s face just as easily as it had latched onto the artist’s. If she was going to carry anyone’s picture, it should be Stanford’s. That was who she should be thinking about.
Delaney retrieved her plastic bucket with the spent petunias as the front door closed behind Helen. She was about to toss the envelope from Leo onto one of the wicker veranda chairs so she could get back to her gardening when the label on the front caught her eye. It bore only her name and address, no return address, unlike the standard mailing labels from Leo’s law firm. She had assumed it was from him, but now that she considered it, it was odd that he would use the regular mail. When he’d sent documents to her in the past, he’d always sent them by courier.
Curious, she set the bucket down and opened the envelope.
It wasn’t filled with papers as she’d expected. It contained glossy sheets that appeared to be enlarged photographs. Why would Leo send her photos? She pulled the lip of the envelope wider so that she could get a better look. The top picture seemed to be merely random blobs of black and dark red.
She drew out the photographs, and the blobs suddenly assumed the pattern of a face.
Or more accurately, a skull. Blackened lumps
sat where the eyes should have been. Shriveled, ragged lips bared a death’s-head’s eerie grin. Shreds of charred skin and bloody flesh clung to the jawbone like the leftovers of a barbecued steak . . .
Delaney dropped the pictures and pressed her fingertips to her mouth.
No! I don’t want to remember this part. Dear God, I can’t see this again.
But the images she saw weren’t in her nightmare.
They were in eight-by-ten glossy prints that fanned out around her feet.
FIFTEEN
DELANEY TIGHTENED HER GRIP ON THE WHEEL AS SHE fixed her gaze on the car in front of her. The buildings that lined Willowbank’s downtown streets had been constructed during the same era as the Wainright House. The facades had been zealously protected from development by the local historical committee, which meant the streets hadn’t been widened past two lanes. As a result, midsummer traffic often moved at a crawl.
Leo adjusted his seat belt to give himself more slack across his stomach. In deference to the warmth of the afternoon, he’d replaced his trademark tweed jacket with a rumpled linen vest. Its sides didn’t quite meet, so he’d left it unbuttoned. “You didn’t have to do this, Delaney.”
“Yes, I did, Leo.”
“But this is difficult for you.”
“My hands are much better than they were when I first came home, so there’s no reason why I shouldn’t go to the station in person.”
“That’s not what I meant. You could have let me drive.”
“You don’t know the town.”
“I do follow directions.”
Delaney slowed to a stop at a red light and dried her palms on her skirt. Since the night of the accident, she had rarely been behind the wheel of a vehicle, as Leo knew full well. For the first three months of the year, she’d been confined to hospital rooms. Once her body had mended enough for her to be ambulatory, her hands hadn’t been in any shape to grip a wheel, so she’d been transferred from place to place by ambulance and later by limo. The car she’d leased when she’d come home hadn’t seen much use so far because she’d had nowhere she’d wanted to go. And to be honest, she’d also kept her outings to a minimum because she’d been afraid that the act of driving could stir up her nightmare.
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