Immortal Hearts (The Hearts Series, #3)

by Muffy Wilson

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Hearts Series

  DEDICATION

  KNOWLEDGMENTS

  Immortal Hearts

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The Hearts Series

  The Complete Series

  Immortal Hearts

  International Bestselling Author

  PROVOCATIVE ROMANCE

  MUFFY WILSON

  Copyright © 2016 Muffy Wilson

  All rights reserved.

  DEDICATION

  This book, as are all the books in this series,

  is devoted, and dedicated, to lovers

  everywhere.

  neither time, nor separation

  or

  death

  Will ever be able to keep those who love apart.

  Hearts, once joined in an immortal love

  become one.

  How could they ever live without the other?

  KNOWLEDGMENTS

  Edited by John Hudspith ~ http://www.johnhudspith.co.uk/

  Cover Art and Design by Kellie Dennis at Book Cover by Design

  http://www.bookcoverbydesign.com.uk

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2016 by Muffy Wilson

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER: Muffy Wilson Books

  Immortal Hearts

  This is the story of my death.

  It is not as it should be, but as it is.

  It is not how I expected but, in the end, how I wanted.

  It is not too soon, but sooner than I thought for my years.

  It is perfect.

  I am the sun, the wind, the stars in your eyes as you gaze into the moonlit heavens.

  I am you, with you, in you—under your skin.

  I reside in your heart.

  And yet, it is not as it should be because it is our destiny.

  It is our hearts, eternally entwined.

  It is us—Immortal.

  Between the sighs and soft lavender scented folds of gray mist, your face emerges above me. You descend upon my closed eyes, kissing each eyelid with the soft lightness of a butterfly. I see you smile somewhere in the distance and your breath caresses my neck on the soft skin you always loved to taste.

  Tenderly, fingertips balanced in the air, you trace the rounded form that is my face, down my shoulders and to my breasts. The magnetic heat from your palms announces the arrival of your loving touch to the welcome eagerness of my nipples.

  “Touch me,” I whisper in a sigh.

  Suspended in my embrace, my fingers weave a gentle hold in your familiar hair, still wet from the bath. Droplets run along the auburn curls that crown your head and fall upon my cheek. You kiss them dry as I slowly wake from the gray beyond.

  Emerging from my dream on unforgiving wings, I realize you are gone. It is the tears that join me nightly on my cheeks that I mistake for your kisses. It is the heat of my own forlorn desire for you that awakens the passion in my breast.

  Again, you leave me for yet another night.

  I sat up in bed and glanced to the empty expanse beside me and ran my palm along the sheets. The undisturbed linens where you should have been were cold and I realized the heartless truth of your absence—you will never return. Not in this lifetime.

  I cried myself to exhaustion as I had done so many nights since your presumed death. I think it might have been easier to accept had your body been found, but it was not. You and Carey went to ready the boat for the fishing season; you loved to fish! How the boat exploded during routine maintenance remains a mystery. I hated that boat—hated the water. It was always taking you from me, and now the final deed was done. The fire in the warehouse burned so intensely hot, nothing was found but your wedding ring beneath the remains of the ash and sodden rubble. It was an image burned into my mind’s eye that left me sad and weak with longing...if for nothing more than your body to claim your destiny. If I could accept your departure, and I could believe your death was real, perhaps I could mourn for my loss and your all-consuming destiny.

  But, I have little to comfort me. I cry for myself.

  I miss you. In the truth of this separation, it is not your kiss that brings me alive in my dreams. It is not your breath of passion on my neck that heats me and flames my desire. Your lips on my flesh do not ignite my fervor. Nor does the magnetic rhapsody of your gaze draw me into your love.

  I miss you. The tender touch of your hand is not the key to my ecstasy. Your insistent but gentle embrace holds not the fire of my ardor. The raw and yearning aroma of your eagerness seduces but does unlock my heart.

  I miss you. It is the soft whisper of your love in my ear, the gentle wave of your excitement, the murmur of your desires in the folds of my trembling flesh that unleash the throes of my passion.

  I will miss your words. The words of your world touch me. When you speak, you kiss my heart and ignite my soul. You write of passion that releases our spirit giving flight to our essence. It is that essence which brings me joy; it is in that aerial core we share a private journey—our journey.

  I will miss our us, our oneness, the embrace of love in our words. The long cavernous expanse before me is at once not distance, nor love, but the separation of truth.

  Our truth.

  Our love.

  Our us.

  Your words animated our gift to one another; the excitement of your daily discoveries shared over a candlelit dinner was my singular life inspiration. Your heart beat in my chest. Your breath filled my lungs. Your pulse fed me life.

  Oh, truth is, I will so miss you...

  I swung my feet to the floor and sat to wipe the tears from my cheeks. They were not the same tears I mistook for the showered droplets of water on my face from your freshly shampooed hair, or the eager, loving kisses from your tender lips.

  I stood to go get a drink of water and walked down the long hallway to the bathroom sink.

  Feigning strength I did not possess, unwavering, I ran my fingers nonchalantly along the wall as I walked past the door to your closet in the hall.

  It was nothing more now than a threshold to the past.

  I knew...

  I couldn’t live in the past... I couldn’t breathe without you.

  I couldn’t exist in the lost and lonely days but... I wouldn’t survive without them.

  I couldn’t welcome today without the memories of our love cinching an aching grip around my heart.

  How could I live without your love to fold around my passion and desire?

  Drawn irresistibly, weakened finally, to the door of your closet, I stopped. Was that the rustle of you dressing, the smell of your cologne and the soft resonant hum of your favorite song escaping your lips as you shaved? I ached for you and pressed my body against the door. The cool partition which separated me from you, from our love, from the crushing truth, seared my yearning flesh and burned my heart.

  There is no life without you: no heartbeat, no air connecting the tethered thoughts between us.

  Oh, God, please bring him back or take me with him, into his eternal embrace.

  I cried quietly...

  ...please don't leave me.

  What will I do now you are gone?

  In a life without you, I’m as good as dead myself...

  The next morning, I awoke on the soft carpet in the hallway at the foot of your closet door. My cheeks were staine
d and crusted with dried tears. I no longer heard the gentle rustling of you dressing. No longer did the tantalizing aroma of your aftershave draw me into your arms, and the low, resonant sound of your throaty humming was replaced by the bustling sounds of commute traffic outside the bedroom window mere feet away.

  Life went innocently on in a world gone harsh and barren without you.

  I wanted to scream that you were dead—gone—plucked from my life like a twisted joke gone awry that could not be undone.

  But, instead, I rolled over onto my back and stared at the ceiling, the rhythmic monotony of the traffic sending me back into the black abyss of dream-sleep. In this suspended lull, I dreamt of you again, just like yesterday... and the day before... and the day before that. There was no escaping the destiny of loss. Every day since your departure has been the same torturous ordeal.

  And then, from the clearing, I saw you smiling at me in the distance. You were surrounded in gray mist, suspended in an ethereal cloud floating towards me, your arms outstretched in a waiting embrace. I could see my fingertips reaching for you in return as you drifted slowly away.

  “No, please, don’t go—don’t leave me again,” I screamed into the bleak silence, but my voice was mute. Surely, you must hear me. Surely, you don’t want to go. You can’t possibly want me to be alone again... “I thought you loved me.”

  “I do...”

  And then you were gone. I woke to your absence and the persistent sound of the doorbell. I collected my wits about me and stood in the hallway. Still in your nightshirt, I swiveled to my closet door, opened it and grabbed my pink robe.

  After I put the robe on, I tightened the sash and released the locks on the door, except for the security chain.

  “Who is it?”

  “The police, Miss Baylord.”

  I opened the door. “What do you want?” I asked through the chained crack.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband’s disappearance.”

  “May I see some identification, please?”

  “Yes, ma’am, of course.” The detective produced his leather billfold with his ID and gold badge.

  I slipped my small hand through the opening, took the billfold and examined it closely.

  “I think you will find everything in order.”

  “Do you have a business card, Detective?”

  “Why, yes, I do. Would you like one?”

  “Yes, please.”

  After I took the card, I dropped it into the pocket of my terrycloth robe and returned the detective’s wallet to him under the chain through the door. I closed the door and released the chain.

  I swung the door wide and gestured to the detective to enter while I walked to the center of my living room. I turned to look at the detective and gestured for him to be seated. He was not a big man, nor was he a small man but he was impressive in a rumpled sort of way. It was off-putting. He had a nice camel cashmere coat on over a charcoal gray pinstriped suit. His face was serious and shadowed with the beginnings of a rustic, uneven beard. It looked as though it had been a while since his last shave.

  For the first time since your disappearance, my darling, I noticed how unkempt our home had become. The room was once warm, with appealing modern décor and mid-century furniture. Lavish floor to ceiling windows framed an expansive view of downtown and the waterfront. Now, it was a darkroom, hidden behind heavy drawn curtains and unused furniture. A room once full of laughter that celebrated life, music and the arts languished in the gloom, more mausoleum than home.

  I knew the walls were painted a light and elegant linen, but they appeared gray and lifeless, the same as I felt. It smelled of stale, dark air gripped by a heavy sadness, thick cigarette smoke and sour coffee. The only things missing were half emptied take-out food containers of wilted Chinese, and crusted hard pizza in greasy boxes with curled ends.

  I collected the musty comforter and pillow off the sofa and sat as I reached for my cigarettes and lighter. I was too empty to care what our once perfect home looked like to the detective.

  “Yes, Detective Richard French?” I read from the business card and took a long, painful draw on my Marlboro. The smoke curled from my lips, billowing into the room to join the stagnant cloud pressed against the ceiling. “What do you want?”

  “Lisbet? Lisbet Baylord?”

  “You know that. What is it you think you don’t know already?”

  “Can you tell me what happened the day your husband disappeared?”

  “I can, but I won’t. You have all that. I’ve spoken to the police on numerous occasions, filed a statement with the insurance company, and been interviewed by the NewsPress. You already know as much as I do. Why don’t you tell me what you know that I don’t?”

  “Pardon me, Miss Baylord?”

  “Mrs Baylord to you, Detective.”

  “Mrs Baylord, I know how difficult this must be for you...”

  “Do you, Detective? Has someone you made love to in the morning been incinerated in the afternoon—plucked out of your life in an instant by an exploding thirty-six-foot boat, too?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. But, I have lost loved ones. I don’t pretend to know what you are going through, Ms Baylord...”

  “Then don’t, Detective.”

  “...and I am so sorry for your loss, but often, after a period of time—a period of self-reflection—we tend to ask ourselves a lot of questions. Sometimes we come up with answers. And sometimes those answers help the police figure out what happened. We have to try to find out. There is no body; the boat is essentially gone. There is no evidence to prove anything, one way or the other. I am sure you know this. I am sure you must have questions, too, and want answers. Perhaps you can help me help you?”

  “I am sorry, Detective. I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t give a fuck about your help. I don’t need it. I don’t have any questions. I don’t have any answers. I don’t have a husband or a fucking boat. I don’t have a life, love or children... and, I don’t have any fucks to give. You know everything I know. How about you giving me some answers? How about you telling me something I don’t already know?”

  And with that, I began to cry.

  The detective sat silently, for a long time, and watched my cigarette burn down and out in the overfilled ashtray on the cluttered coffee table. He sat quietly for as long as it took for me to stop crying. I found his presence strangely comforting. He did not move to console me, but left me to my wailing torture. I agonized for my lost love. I rose and padded barefooted to the bathroom. In what seemed like a long while later, I returned to the living room and the detective. I had washed my face, brushed my teeth and combed my hair for the first time since I don’t know when.

  “I’m sorry, Detective.”

  “I understand, Ms Baylord. My wife, Mary, died of cancer two years ago. Married for what woulda been twenty years last month, so I understand the gripping pain of loss; but unlike you, I had my goodbyes. I don’t know what’s easier, not that either way is. One way is in an instant, before your next breath, and the other is agonizingly slow, drawn out and painful. Death comes to us all, one way or another, Ms Baylord. I am sorry to intrude.”

  “Lisbet. Call me Lisbet.”

  “Yes, ma’am... Lisbet.”

  “I’m sorry about your wife. Do you have children?”

  “Yes, ma’a... Lisbet. I have three. I credit them with keeping me sane and focused. Kids don’t understand, but they are still children and need to be taken care of 24/7. They cry when they can’t find their other shoe. Helps to keep things in perspective. Mary would have wanted me to put the kids first, and I did. They made it easier. The routine was purposeful and unrelenting. Sometimes, ya just gotta do what ya gotta do and not think about anything else.”

  “Hmmm...”

  “But, everyone grieves differently. Do you have kids, Lisbet... oh, I’m sorry. You mentioned you didn’t.”

  “No, we were only married for six years. It never seemed
like the right time, what with careers, money, moving and such. Now, I see that was a mistake.”

  “It doesn’t help to second guess your decisions, Lisbet. You made them together and, at the time, it was the right thing to do—for both of you. That’s how it works. Me and my Mary used to say that all the time—one for all and all for one.”

  “That’s wonderful, Detecti... I’m sorry. What’s your name?”

  “Richard French. Dick, please.”

  “Detective Dick? Dick Dick?” I chuckled, then laughed with a mounting belly-roll which I found somewhat therapeutic.

  My laughter quickly became uncontrollable, as it seemed all my emotions were of late. Then Dick Dick started to laugh too and it fed my release. It felt like we laughed for a long time together. When finally, I drew a small exhausted breath, I smiled at my visitor.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’s okay. It was funny. It felt good to laugh.”

  “Yes, it did. Now, what would you like to ask me, Dick?”

  “Really, only if you have thought of anything you may have just remembered?”

  “Well, Carey Myers was supposed to go fishing with him. I don’t know if I ever told anyone that. I don’t know that it even matters. Carey is fine, isn’t he?”

  “No, he is missing, too. We have questioned all your husband’s friends, associates and co-workers. They all speak very highly of him. He was liked and admired. He was known as a generous and compassionate boss, and a loyal friend. A few mentioned he seemed preoccupied recently, but that could have been anything. We are trying to find out what was on his mind. Most likely, it had nothing to do with the accident or your husband’s disappearance...”

  “Death.”

  “Well, for now, we have him listed as missing. Hopefully, we will know more soon.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know anything more, Dick.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “We met in Paris. I was there for two years to finish my masters at the Sorbonne and complete an internship at L’Officiel, a prominent French magazine. I’m a freelance writer. He was there on business. I was assigned to see that he had everything he needed while on assignment.”