Rosemary for Remembrance

by Christine Arness

  With impatient movements, the doctor shook a couple of capsules into Abigail’s hand. “These are for tonight. I’ll write you a prescription in case you need more tomorrow. Keep the wound clean and dry until the stitches come out.”

  A nurse in pale blue scrubs assisted Abigail down from the gurney as sirens split the air and the doctor rushed off. The smell of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant stung Abigail’s nostrils and the pale green walls seemed to shimmy around her as she negotiated the corridor on shaky legs; nurses and orderlies hurried past as though she and her escort were invisible.

  “You’re a lucky girl,” the matronly aide remarked in envious tones as she supported Abigail’s sagging form. “That handsome man who brought you in has been pacing the waiting room like a bear with a sore head—it was all we could do to keep him from charging back here to stay with you.”

  The numbness from the shot had spread from her hand to engulf her whole body and the motion of the car was making her sleepy; Abigail smothered a yawn with the back of her uninjured hand. The driver’s darkened silhouette revealed a strong square jaw as she studied him, fighting the lassitude that kept washing over her in waves and threatened to send her drifting into oblivion.

  “How did you get in? The doors were locked—I saw the garage door close.”

  Ross braked as the car ahead slowed. “What you didn’t see was me rolling under the closing door right behind your car. You should sweep that floor more often—my jacket’s ruined.”

  “You were following me? You slipped into my house and came up behind me in the dark—” She stopped, aghast at how easily her defenses had been breached.

  He was silent as she continued, “What an insane thing to do! Creeping into my house like, like a rapist.”

  “I’m sorry—it was a stupid thing to do, but I was desperate. You won’t take my calls at the office, you ran away from me at the party…I have to explain, Red. Explain about Olivia and my baby boy—” His voice broke.

  He was turning into a driveway and with relief flooding her body, Abigail recognized the outline of her house. Ross stopped the car before the closed doors of the garage and bowed his head over the wheel.

  His voice was muffled. “I realize my behavior has been erratic since our first meeting and I can only apologize. All I’m asking for is ten minutes. If you’re still afraid I’ll hurt you, get out of the car now and I’ll never attempt to contact you again.”

  Abigail felt the throb of the engine through the floorboards of the car. A dull ache was seeping through the pain medication and she was too tired even to fumble for the door handle. “Ten minutes.”

  He plunged into his story, running his words together as if to get through as much as possible before she changed her mind. “Our problems didn’t begin until after Olivia and I had been married for three years. As I became more wrapped up in my work, Livvy reacted by calling me at the office almost hourly and voicing suspicions about every woman with whom I came in contact. We started having a scene every night and between the combination of our not speaking to each other and my absences, I didn’t realize she was using a wine bottle as a crutch to get through each day.”

  A sigh. “I did a lot of pro bono work—built up a reputation for helping victims of abuse and neglect. A women’s group contacted me about running for state’s attorney and Olivia, expecting our first child, seemed all for it.”

  He plucked out the cigarette lighter and studied the neon glow of its tip. “After the baby was born, I spent weeks getting my staff and files in shape. Olivia seemed content—she was completely wrapped up in our baby, Jason.” The spaces between his words had lengthened and he shoved the lighter back into place, hunching his shoulders as if to ward off a blow.

  So far, Abigail had heard a tale familiar to any attorney who has handled divorce work, one of a career-oriented spouse putting strain on the marriage bond until it was stretched to the breaking point. But in this case, something else had intervened before divorce papers were filed—a catastrophic event that had exploded the lives of both Olivia and Ross.

  Having an inkling of the tragedy only made the waiting worse as the silence lengthened and the digital numbers changed on the dashboard clock. The ten minutes were almost up, but Ross seemed to have lost the impetus to continue as he stared through the windshield at the garage door. She willed him to finish, to complete the cycle and allow them to walk away from each other with a sense of finality, but he remained silent.

  Her voice was low as she prompted, “What happened to the baby?”

  As if she’d pulled the string on a talking doll, he jerked into speech again. “Livvy hadn’t been out of the house for almost a month—I finally talked her into going to a bridge luncheon, said I’d baby-sit Jason.” He turned and gripped Abigail’s wrists. This time she returned his gaze without fear.

  “I checked on that baby every half hour, Red, I swear I did. I gave him a bottle, burped him, changed his diaper. When he fell asleep, I put him in the bassinet and watched the football game. During a commercial I went back to cover him with a blanket and discovered he’d stopped breathing.”

  Abigail felt her stomach heave. The anguish underlying his words was as sharp and vivid as a lightning bolt splitting the night sky. “Crib death?”

  Ross’s grasp slackened. “That’s what the doctor put on the death certificate—Olivia wouldn’t consent to an autopsy and she was in such a state of shock that I didn’t push it. She blamed me for being negligent, but I think her real problem was guilt—the doctor had warned her about easing off on the alcohol while she was pregnant, but I still found half-full wine bottles in the trash, hidden around the house, stashed in the garage—even buried in the backyard.

  “At the gravesite, she had a breakdown and accused me of murdering our son. When she came at me, screaming, I pushed her away—she broke her wrist when she fell against Jason’s gravestone, a little marble lamb.”

  The engine pitch changed, the idle slowing. Tears filled Abigail’s eyes as she visualized that marble lamb, a cold marker for what had once been a warm armful of life.

  He pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead as if to contain the pain inside his head. “Olivia’s been hospitalized three times since the baby’s death for treatment of alcoholism.”

  The tortured voice stopped and the man stared straight ahead through the windshield. Abigail studied his profile; her perception had changed without her being aware of the process—she no longer saw the monster, but instead a fellow human experiencing intense suffering. Leaning forward, she touched his cheek and he turned toward her, his gaze lowered until she cupped his chin and raised it to let him see that her eyes were wet with unshed tears of sympathy.

  With a groan, Ross bent and kissed her, not with the raw lust of Quincy’s embrace, but rather in a gentle, healing caress. She found herself clinging to him and crying, tasting the salt of his own tears as she kissed the hardness of his jaw. Then their lips met and the embrace deepened in intensity, the lightning strike of passion welding them together into a single entity.

  Abigail felt her heart match the beat of his as he held her in his arms; she shivered as his hand teased along the outline of the ripped fabric across her breast and his tongue explored the honey-sweet taste of her mouth. She welcomed the intimacy, their mingled tears drowning them in an erotic ocean of physical sensations.

  She hadn’t realized her hunger for contact, her need to feel the hardness of his body and inhale the intoxicating scent of him. With a murmur of frustration for the bandaged hand that kept her from fully investigating the hardened sinews of the body that surged against her in a mighty tide, Abigail used the fingertips of her other hand to massage his chest and gloried in the pounding of his heart. With each breath that he drew, she felt the power of skyrockets bursting inside her own body, punctuating the music of a triumphant march.

  As their bodies were consumed by the spreading heat of passion, the car’s engine roared and its frame shivered as Ross’s f
oot bumped the accelerator. The engine’s throb echoed the roaring in her own ears as she went spiraling back down into darkness.

  She awoke to find Ross holding her at arm’s length and she blinked, willing the world to cease spinning around her. “Don’t stop,” she whispered.

  His voice was tender. “You were on the verge of fainting, Red—you’re still in shock.”

  She went limp in his grasp. “I—I’m so tired.”

  “I’ll take you inside. You need to rest.”

  His voice was hoarse with suppressed passion, but she felt peaceful and secure in his arms, content now to let him lead.

  As he continued to stroke her arms, she felt the numbness creeping up her arm again, chilling her, and all desire fled. She tried to hold her head up but sagged against the strength of his shoulder.

  “I’ll be fine in the morning,” she murmured, each word an effort.

  “I’ll make sure you get inside without passing out.” He turned off the ignition and came around to open her door.

  Ross stayed with her, washing the caked blood from her arm and even helping her undress, although his rate of respiration increased dramatically and a punch-drunk Abigail giggled. From a bureau drawer, he passed over the sheer negligees and lacy tap pants in favor of a pair of flannel pajamas that Sylvia had given Abigail as a going away present. Good old Sylvia, Abigail thought drowsily as Ross buttoned up the pajamas. The gift card had read, “To keep out the cold.”

  Ross tucked a light blanket under her chin as if she were a child and fetched a glass of water to put with a pain capsule on the bedside table. A floorboard creaked as his weight passed over it and Abigail put up a tentative hand to hold back the ceiling, which seemed to be pressing lower and lower.

  “Ross?” Her voice was weak.

  “Yes, Red?” He sat down on the edge of the mattress, the springs squeaking in protest, and a big, warm hand smoothed the tangled hair back from her forehead. She found herself studying his features without embarrassment, noting that besides the tiny chip in a front tooth, his nose wasn’t quite symmetrical.

  Pulling her wandering thoughts together, she said with conviction, “Julia and Austin know what happened to Rosemary.”

  The hand paused in its stroking motion. “Careful, Red. You don’t have a shred of proof and if word of this investigation leaks to the press, it could spell doom to Austin’s judgeship.”

  Although exhaustion weighted her limbs, Abigail lifted her head off the pillow and stared, wide-eyed, at the man bending over her. “But if he and his sister killed someone and they’ve been covering it up all these years…”

  He traced her lips with the tip of his finger, his voice a soothing murmur. “Get proof that will stand up in court and I can help you, Red. But baseless accusations will only—”

  “I see it now.” A dizzying surge of anger gave her the strength to prop herself up on her elbows. “You’re up for reelection next year—protecting him because he’s so politically powerful. What would you call proof? A dented, bloodstained fender from a car that probably ended up on the junk heap years ago?”

  Her accusations seemed to fall into a void, the intimacy of the atmosphere shattered by her words, and she found herself looking into the eyes of a stranger.

  “You’re upset and shaken. Calm down—you’ll be able to think more clearly in the morning.”

  The fog curtain of medication descended to muddle her thoughts and she felt somehow remote from the man beside her; the memory of the embrace in the car receded only to be replaced by images of the spite posy and the doodled snowmen.

  Overriding a warning flag of caution, Abigail found herself voicing her suspicions. “You’re in this cover-up with them! You’ve been trying to scare me off since the investigation began!”

  He stood up, towering over her, his voice deceptively quiet. “You still don’t trust me, do you, Red? I’ve spilled my emotional guts, turned myself inside out, and you keep studying me like a specimen on a microscope slide. How could you come on to me like that if you think I’m capable of such duplicity? Or is it your habit to sate your sexual appetites on the nearest male?”

  His contempt stung. She bumped her sore hand, wincing as she pushed herself to a sitting position, and blurted out, “Why should I trust you? I only have your word that Olivia was the one who didn’t want to have Jason autopsied.”

  A dark flush stained his neck and he bit off each word. “Don’t ever speak his name again. I can’t believe I was ever attracted to such a neurotic, sanctimonious iceberg!” He gulped air, his chest heaving as he loomed over her and his hands knotted into fists.

  Abigail flinched back, aghast at her temerity.

  “Next time you get hot, Red, beg some other infatuated jerk to quench your fire.”

  Turning, he stalked out of the room. Abigail flung herself out of bed and hobbled after him, compelled by the urge to apologize, to jump back in time to those sweet, drowsy moments when he cradled her close and fear and confusion were held at bay, but the front door banged, the sound hammering home the knowledge that she’d been abandoned.

  As a last, pathetic sop to her shattered pride, she yanked the door open and shouted after his retreating figure. “I don’t beg, Mr. Stewart!”

  In answer, a door crashed shut, an engine revved as the accelerator was floored with a vicious thrust, and tires squealed as the car backed out of the driveway. She remained standing there in the baggy pajamas, clutching the doorpost, until the air revived her from the drug-induced lethargy. With the chill came a return of sanity.

  “What have I done?” she whispered and sank down on the doorstep, tears streaming down her cheeks and her head cradled in her bandaged hand.

  Chapter 33

  After several hours of sleeplessness, Abigail gave up and swallowed another one of the capsules. Both her heart and her hand were throbbing with unbearable pain and the realization that she’d committed the same sin for which she’d condemned Rosemary: following an obsessive and sometimes destructive path toward a goal, heedless of the consequences of her actions. Images of Ross’s haunted face after she’d accused him of murdering his own child, Oliver Payton holding a crossword puzzle with the white squares inked in, and a shattered snail shell vase circled the bed. Abigail stirred, feeling as though she’d assumed a part of Rosemary’s identity and become an instrument to reopen old wounds. She was as bad as Rosemary, as bad as Rosemary…

  The darkened outlines of her bedroom fell away and Abigail was walking down a dirt road. Her hair hung heavy and sticky with sweat against the nape of her neck and small stones crunched underfoot as she tried to avoid sharp ruts cut from an earlier rainstorm. Her feet throbbed; the peach-tinted pumps pinched her toes.

  She became aware that her left hand cradled a beaded bag and her right was clenched on something warm, round, and smooth. Opening the closed fist, she discovered a glowing pink pearl. A picture inside the pearl came into focus and she recognized the old car from the photo in Flora’s bedroom, its dulled finish now polished and gleaming.

  As she walked, still staring into the depths of the pearl, an owl hooted and Abigail stumbled, twisting her ankle. Pausing to rub the sore joint, she looked down into the pearl again and saw that the car had disappeared and in its place was a leather bag tied with a black drawstring. She knew instinctively that the bag was filled with gold coins; the pearl seemed heavier, as if weighted down by the gold.

  Bewildered, she started walking again. The pearl and its images had a teasing familiarity, but the associations were vague and unpleasant and left her feeling an unaccountable anxiety. The road slanted up and Abigail felt the pull of tired muscles in the back of her legs as she limped to the top and started down the other side. A signpost loomed up on her right out of the darkness and she stopped to peer at its face; the black letters, although faded by years of exposure to sun, rain, and snow, were legible enough for her to read the words Kelton Road.

  Abigail stared at the sign in disbelief and then looked ba
ck down at the pearl in her hand. The image of the car had replaced the leather bag and the lights of the car were switched on.

  She was wearing a peach dress and walking down Kelton Road.

  The rumble of an automobile engine silenced the sleepy chirp of the birds. Abigail looked back over her shoulder, but the rise in the road kept her from seeing the car until the vehicle crested the hill, its headlamps fixing her in their beams like the hypnotic eyes of a jungle cat stalking its prey.

  Flinging the pearl at the oncoming car, she turned to run; the road sucked at the peach pumps like quicksand. She screamed in terror as she felt the heat of the engine against her legs, fell under the crushing weight of the wheels.

  Abigail sat up in bed, soaked with sweat and her heart pounding, only to realize that the scream was coming from outside the house.

  Chapter 34

  A neighbor must have called the police to report the screaming woman because sirens soon pierced the night air. Abigail crouched under the bedclothes, cradling her throbbing hand, until a knock sounded on the front door.

  “Ms. James, this is the police. Please answer the door.”

  She pulled on her robe, groaning in frustration as her bulky wrapped hand caught in the sleeve, and thrust her feet into slippers. She limped out to find a uniformed man and Mr. Hanson, her next-door neighbor, on her doorstep. The old man was barefoot, his white hair sticking up in tufts giving him the appearance of a great horned owl.

  “Did you hear the screams, ma’am?” The policeman was very young, clean-shaven, and soft-spoken.

  “Yes, yes—they were horrible. Did you find the poor girl?”

  “No, ma’am. We did find something peculiar on your property, though. Can you come and take a look?” The mars lights on the squad car glowed, throwing strobe flashes of red and blue across the faces of the assembled neighbors.