The Sign of Seven Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  “Yeah, okay. Yeah, thanks.”

  She scrambled out of bed, darted out of the room. And Fox put his head in his hands. He needed a minute to pull himself together, to push the rest away. The dream had him twisted up, mixing his memories, tying in his fears, his loss.

  He’d been too late on that ugly summer night, too busy being the hero. He’d screwed it up, and Carly died. He should have kept her safe. He should’ve made sure of it, should have protected her, above all else. She’d been his, and he hadn’t helped her.

  Layla hurried back, knelt on the bed as she pressed the water into his hand. “Are you warm enough now? Do you want another blanket?”

  “No. No, I’m good. Sorry about that.”

  “You were like ice, and you were calling out.” Gently, she brushed the hair back from his face. “I couldn’t wake you up, not at first. What was it, Fox? What did you dream?”

  “I don’t—” He started to tell her he didn’t remember, but the lie stuck bitterly in the back of his throat. He’d lied to Carly, and Carly was dead. “I can’t talk about it.” That wasn’t quite the truth either. “I don’t want to talk about it now.”

  He felt her hesitation, her need to press. And ignored it. Saying nothing, she took the empty glass from him, set it on the nightstand. Then she drew him back, cradling his head on her breast. “It’s all right now.” Her murmur was as soft as the hand that stroked his hair. “It’s all right. Sleep awhile longer.”

  And her comfort chased his demons away so he could.

  IN THE MORNING, SHE EASED OUT OF BED LIKE A thief out of a second-story window. He looked exhausted, she thought, and still very pale. All she could hope was some of the sorrow she’d felt from him in the night had softened with sleep. She could find its source; he couldn’t block her now. If she knew the root, she might help him dig it out, help heal whatever hurt his heart.

  And while that was true enough, it was only part of what tempted her. The rest was selfish, even petty. He’d called out her name in the grip of the nightmare, called in terror and despair. But not only hers, Layla remembered. He’d called out another’s.

  Carly.

  No, looking into his mind and heart while he slept, whether the motive was selfless or selfish, was a violation. The worst kind. A breach of trust and intimacy.

  She’d let him sleep, and if she had to breach something, she’d breach his kitchen and find something reasonably sane to fix him for breakfast.

  She slipped on his discarded shirt and out of the room.

  In the kitchen, she got a quick jolt. Not from piles of dirty dishes and scattered newspaper. The room was what she thought of as man-clean. A few dishes in the sink, some unopened mail on the table, counters hastily wiped around countertop appliances.

  The jolt came from the addition of a shiny new countertop coffeemaker.

  Everything in her went soft toward the point of gooey. He never drank coffee, but he’d gone out and bought a coffeemaker for her—one that had a fresh bean grinder. And when she opened the cupboard overhead, she found the bag of beans.

  Could he be sweeter?

  She was holding the brown bag, smiling at the appliance when Fox walked in. “You bought a coffeemaker.”

  “Yeah. I figured you ought to be able to get your morning fix.”

  When she turned, his head was already in the fridge. “Thank you. And just for that I’m going to cook you breakfast. You must have something in here I can morph into actual food.”

  She came around the refrigerator door to poke her own head in. When he straightened, stepped back, she saw his face.

  “Oh, Fox.” Instinctively she lifted a hand to his cheek. “You don’t look well. You should go back to bed. You’ve got a light schedule today anyway. I can cancel—”

  “I’m fine. We don’t get sick, remember?”

  Not in body, she thought, but heart and mind were different matters. “You get tired. You’re tired now, and you need a day off.”

  “What I need is a shower. Look, I appreciate the breakfast offer, but I don’t have much of an appetite this morning. Go ahead and make your coffee, if you can figure that thing out.”

  Whose voice was that? Layla asked herself as he walked away. That cool and distant voice? With careful movements, she put the beans away, quietly closed the cupboard door. Walking back to the bedroom, she began to dress while the sound of the water striking tile in the bathroom drummed in her ears.

  A woman knew when a man wanted her gone, and a woman with any pride obliged him. She’d shower at home, dress for the workday at home, have her coffee at home. The man wanted space, she’d damn well give him space.

  When the phone rang, she ignored it. Then, cursing, gave in. It could be important, she thought, an emergency. Then she winced when Fox’s mother gave her a cheery good morning and addressed her by name.

  In the shower, Fox let the hot water pound over him while he gulped down his cold caffeine. The combination dulled some of the sharp edges, but there were plenty more where they came from. He felt hungover, headachy, queasy. It would pass. It always passed. But a nightmare could give him a rougher morning-after than any drunken spree.

  He’d probably chased Layla off, snapping at her that way. Which, he admitted, had been the purpose. He didn’t want her hovering, stroking, and soothing, watching him with that worry in her eyes. He wanted to be alone so he could wallow and brood.

  As was his damn right.

  He turned off the shower, whipped a towel around his waist. When he walked into the bedroom, trailing drips, there she was.

  “I was just leaving,” she began in the frosty tone that told him he’d done his job very well. “But your mother called.”

  “Oh. Okay, I’ll get back to her.”

  “Actually, I’m to tell you that since Sage and Paula have to be in D.C. on Monday, and may have to head back to Seattle from there, she’s having everyone over for dinner tomorrow.”

  He pressed his fingers to his eyes. Probably no way out of that one. “Okay.”

  “She expects me to come. Me—all of us. I’m supposed to help you spread the word. You probably know she’s impossible to say no to, but you can make excuses for me tomorrow.”

  “Why would I do that? Why wouldn’t you go? Why should you get out of eating stuffed artichokes?” Since she didn’t smile, he shoved at his dripping hair. “Look, I’m feeling a little rugged this morning. Maybe you could cut me a very narrow break.”

  “Believe me, I already have. I’m trying to cut it even wider by convincing myself you’re being moody and secretive because you’re an ass, not because you don’t trust me. But it’s tricky because while you may be an ass, you’re not a big enough one to hold back the details of a major trauma like the one you went through last night just to be stupid. So I circle right back to the matter of trust. I let you inside me, I took you inside me in that bed, but you won’t let me inside you. You won’t tell me what hurt and scared you.”

  “You need to back off, Layla. This just isn’t the time.”

  “You get to choose the time? Well, that’s fine. Just let me know when it’s convenient for you, and I’ll pencil me in.”

  She started out, and he did nothing to stop her. Then she stopped, looked dead into his eyes. “Who’s Carly?”

  When he said nothing, when his eyes went blank, she walked away and left him alone.

  HE DIDN’T EXPECT HER TO COME INTO THE OFfice, actively hoped she wouldn’t. But while he was in his law library trying to concentrate on research, he heard her come in. There was no mistaking it for anyone else. Fox knew the way she moved, even her morning routine.

  Open the door of the foyer closet, hang up coat, close the door. Cross to the desk, open the bottom right-hand drawer, stow purse. Boot up the computer.

  He heard all the busy little sounds. They made him feel guilty, and the guilt annoyed him. They’d ignore each other for a few hours, he decided. Until she calmed down and he settled down.

  Then, they�
��d just move past it.

  Ignoring and avoidance worked well enough for most of the morning. Every time the phone rang, he braced for her voice to come snipping over the intercom. But she never buzzed him.

  He told himself he didn’t sneak from the library to his office. He simply walked very, very quietly.

  When he heard her go out to lunch, he strolled out to reception, took a casual scan of her desk. He noted the short stack of while-you-were-outs for him. So she wasn’t passing the calls through, he mused. No problem, that worked. He’d do the callbacks later, he decided. Because if he took the messages into his office, it would become obvious he’d been out there poking around her desk.

  Now he felt stupid. Stupid, tired, beleaguered, and a little pissed off. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he started back to his office and jolted when the door opened. Relief came when he saw Shelley walk in rather than Layla.

  “Hi. I was hoping I could talk to you for a minute. I just saw Layla outside, and she said you were in, probably not real busy.”

  “Sure. You want to come back?”

  “No.” She walked to him, and just put her arms around him. “Thanks. I just wanted to say thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. What for?”

  “Block and I had our first counseling session last night.” She gave a sigh, stepped back. “It was kind of intense and it got pretty emotional, I guess. I don’t know how it’s all going to end up, but I think it helped. I think it’s better to try, to talk, even if we’re yelling, than to just say screw you, you bastard. If I end up saying that, at least I’ll know I gave it a good shot first. I don’t know if I would have if you hadn’t been looking out for me.”

  “I want you to get what you want, whatever that is. And to be happy when you get it.”

  She nodded, dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I know Block went after you, and you didn’t press charges. He’s feeling, I guess the word’s chastised. I wanted to thank you for that, too, for not pressing charges.”

  “It wasn’t all his fault.”

  “Oh, it was, too.” But she laughed a little. “He’s got some making up to do, but he knows it. He’s got a black eye. I don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s small of me, but I appreciate that, too.”

  “No charge.”

  She laughed a little. “Anyway. We’re going to keep going, see what happens. I get to go alone next, and I am so unloading.” Now she grinned. “Already feels good. I gotta get back to work.”

  He went back to his office, worked and brooded. He heard Layla come back in. Closet, coat, desk, drawer, purse. He went out the kitchen door, making just enough noise to let her know he’d headed out.

  The sun was brilliant in a ripe blue sky. Though the air was warm enough to keep him comfortable in his light jacket, the chill shot up his spine.

  The afternoon mirrored his dream.

  He forced himself to round the building to Main. Pansies rioted in the tub in front of the flower shop. People strolled, some in shirtsleeves, as if sucking down this taste of spring after the last gulp of winter. He curled his hands into fists, and followed the steps.

  He waited for a break in traffic, crossed the street.

  Amy came out of the back of the flower shop. “Hey, Fox. How you doing? Fabulous day, isn’t it? About time, too.”

  Close enough, he thought, keeping his eyes on her face. “Yeah. How’ve you been?”

  “No complaints. Are you looking for something for the office? Mrs. Hawbaker usually picked out an arrangement on Mondays. You don’t want to buy office flowers on a Friday, Fox.”

  “No.” Though some of the knots in his belly loosened— not the same—they tightened again when he glanced over and saw the daffodils. “It’s personal. Those are what I’m after.”

  “Aren’t they sweet? All cheerful and hopeful.” She turned, and he stared at the faint reflection of her face in the glass. She smiled, but it was Amy’s smile, as cheerful as the flowers.

  She chattered as she prepared them, wrapped them, but the words slipped in and out of his mind as he searched the air for the scent of something rotting. And found nothing but fresh and floral.

  “Are they for your girl?”

  He gave her a quick, sharp look. “Yeah. Yeah, they’re for my girl.”

  Her smile only went brighter as they exchanged money for blooms. “She’ll love them. If you want something for the office, I’ll have a nice arrangement for you Monday.”

  “Okay, thanks.” He turned to go.

  “Say hi to Layla for me.”

  He closed his eyes, relief, guilt, gratitude rushing through him. “I will. See you later.”

  Maybe he was a little dizzy when he stepped outside, a little shaky in the knees, but when he made himself look, the door of the old library was closed. His gaze traveled up, up, but no one he loved stood poised for death on the narrow ledge of the turret.

  He crossed the street again. She was at her desk when he came in the front door. She flicked him a glance, then looked deliberately away.

  “There are messages on your desk. Your two o’clock called to reschedule for next week.”

  He walked to her, held out the flowers. “I’m sorry.”

  “They’re very nice. I’ll go put them in water.”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated when she rose and made to brush by him.

  She paused, just two beats. “All right.” And taking the flowers, walked away.

  He wanted to let it go. What was the point in dredging it all up? What could possibly be the point? It wasn’t about trust, it was about pain. Wasn’t he entitled to his own pain? Hurting, he strode back to the kitchen where she filled a vase with water.

  “Listen, are we supposed to turn ourselves inside out, show off our guts? Is that what it takes?”

  “No.”

  "We don’t have to know every damn detail about each other.”

  “No, we don’t.” She began to slip the tender green stems into the water, one by one.

  “I had a nightmare. I’ve had nightmares almost as long as I can remember. We’ve all had them now.”

  “I know.”

  “Is that your way of dragging it out of me? To agree with everything I say?”

  “It’s my way of controlling myself so I don’t kick your ass and step over it on my way out.”

  “I don’t want to fight.”

  “Yes, you do. That’s exactly what you want, and I’m not going to give you what you want. You don’t deserve it.”

  “Jesus Christ.” He stormed around the little room and in a rare show of violence kicked at the cabinets. “She’s dead. Carly’s dead. I didn’t save her, and she died.”

  Layla turned away from the sunbeams in the bright blue vase. “I’m so sorry, Fox.”

  “Don’t.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Just don’t.”

  “Don’t be sorry because you lost someone who must have mattered a great deal to you? Don’t be sorry because you’re hurting? What do you expect from me?”

  “Right now, I don’t have the first clue.” He dropped his hands. “We met the spring before my twenty-third birthday, when I was in New York, in law school. She was a medical student. She wanted to work in emergency medicine. We met at a party. We started seeing each other. Casually. Casually at first, for a while. We were both studying, crazy schedules. She stayed in New York during the summer break, and I came home. But I went up a few times because things were getting more serious.”

  When he sat at the kitchen table, Layla opened the refrigerator. Instead of his usual Coke, she brought him a bottle of water, and one for herself.

  “We moved in together that fall. Crappy place, the kind of crappy place you expect a couple of students to be able to afford in New York. We loved it. She loved it,” he corrected. “I was always a little out of step in New York, a little on edge. But she loved it, so I did because I loved her. I loved her, Layla.”

  “I know. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “We made plan
s. Long-range, colorful plans, the way you do. I never told her about the Hollow, not what was under it. I told myself we’d stopped it, during the last Seven. We’d ended it, so I didn’t need to tell her. I knew it was a lie. I was sure it was a lie when the dreams came back. Cal called. I still had weeks to go in the semester, my job as a law clerk. I had Carly. But I had to come back. So I lied to her, made excuses that were lies. Family emergency.”

  Not really a lie, he told himself now, as he’d told himself then. The Hollow was his family.

  “I went back and forth, back and forth, for those weeks between New York and the Hollow. And I piled lie on top of lie. And I used my gift to read her so I could tell what sort of lie would work best.”

  “Why didn’t you tell her, Fox?”

  “She’d never have believed me. There wasn’t a fanciful bone in her body. Carly was all about science. Maybe that was part of the attraction. None of this would or could be real for her, I told myself. But that was only part of the reason, maybe that was just another lie.”

  He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve tension. “I wanted something that wasn’t part of this. I wanted the reality of her, of what we had away from here. So when summer came and I knew I had to be here, I made more excuses, told more lies. I picked fights with her. It was better if she was pissed at me than that any part of this touch her. I told her we needed to take a break, that I was going home for a few weeks. Needed some space. I hurt her, and justified it as protecting her.”

  He took a long, slow drink of water. “Things got ugly before the seventh day of the seventh month. Fights and fires, vandalism. We were busy, me and Cal and Gage. I called her. I shouldn’t have called her, but I did, to tell her I missed her, that I’d be back in a couple of weeks. If I hadn’t wanted to hear her voice . . .”

  “She came,” Layla said. “She came to Hawkins Hollow.”

  “The day before our birthday, she drove down from New York. She got directions to the farm, and showed up on the doorstep. I wasn’t there. Cal had an apartment in town back then, and we were staying there. Carly called from the kitchen of the farmhouse. Didn’t think she’d miss my birthday, did I?