Immortal Hearts (The Hearts Series, #3)

by Muffy Wilson

  “Oh, what kind of work does—did—your husband do?”

  “He was in Network Integrated Management and Intelligent Architecture—NIMIA—the acronym for his company.”

  The detective pulled his cell phone from his breast pocket and it vibrated noticeably again before he looked at the caller ID, muted it and set it on the edge of the end table.

  “Ah, yes, of course.”

  “But, then you knew that...”

  “Yes. Tell me about him personally; tell me about the private man you knew as your husband. Where was he from, did you ever meet his parents?”

  “He was born in New York and lived there all his life. His parents died in some sort of accident in Europe. I never asked too much because it was so painful for him. I knew he would tell me when the time was right for him. He was an only child, so he inherited their entire estate. He used it to start his business. We met, fell in love and got married. A pretty simple story, actually. Anything else?”

  “Well, perhaps just one thing more. Did your husband have a favorite place he liked to go to be alone? Perhaps a cabin in the woods or studio in the city? Did his parents leave him any property he liked to visit... anything at all that would be a getaway for him?”

  “Are you suggesting that my husband is alive and hunkered down in a hidey-hole somewhere, deliberately secreted away—to get away from me?”

  “No, Lisbet. I am not. I am just trying to cover all the bases. After all, someone higher up is going to ask me the same questions. Did he have such a place that he took you in the past?”

  I paused, thinking, as I tried to remember anything that I may have noticed in his papers, but I did not recall any such place.

  “No, Detective, I cannot think of anything like that. I’ve never been to a secret hideaway with him, nor have I ever seen any place like that referenced in our financial papers. Is there anything else?”

  “No, I think that’s it for now. May I call you or stop by if I think of anything else?”

  “Please call, but yes, of course.”

  I rose to indicate I was through talking and Detective Dick took the cue, stood and turned towards the door. As he moved over the threshold, he paused, and turned to me, looking perplexed. Scratching his bearded chin, he asked a final question.

  “How old did you say your husband was...?”

  “Actually, I didn’t, but you should have that in your reports. Never mind. He was forty-two. He was several years older than me. Why?”

  “No particular reason; I just forgot. He looked a good deal younger than his years. Quite a handsome guy.”

  I extended my hand to shake the detective’s hand as he departed. He hesitated, then wrapped his long fingers around mine and shook my hand.

  His skin was cold to the touch.

  “Forgive me for my rude, unwelcoming behavior earlier. I am having a hard time carrying on.”

  “I’ve found in my line of work, and I have seen a lot of this, that everyone heals differently. Take all the time you need. You will know when you’re ready. And, should you remember anything, or find anything in his estate paperwork, would you call me, please? You have my card.”

  “Yes, of course. Goodbye, Detective.”

  “Yes, ma’am—goodbye. Oh, and Ms. Baylord, forgive me for meddling, but you might want to see your doctor. You look just like my Mary did every time we were gonna have a new baby. Lock the door behind me.”

  I was dumbstruck. The audacity of the man; who the hell did he think he was?

  I closed the door on the detective, rolled onto my back and pressed against the door. Impossible. How would he know if I was pregnant? It was more likely he was trying to suggest I see my doctor for help. I thought what a curious man Dick Dick was, then remembered his warning and threw all the locks and dead bolts on the door. It had grown dark. I put the chain back in its channel and walked to the kitchen, flipping the light on.

  I dismissed the detective and his careless speculation as harmless but well intended.

  The kitchen was a mess, more neglected than dirty. I was ashamed of myself and how much I had let everything go. I opened a cupboard in search of something to eat. I was suddenly famished. Luckily, I found a crumpled bag of Top Ramen tucked in the back behind some Bisquick. I sorely needed to shop... and shower; a shampoo would be a must.

  What if Damien was still alive? What if he had been knocked out and thrown clear of the boat? What if he couldn’t remember who he was? I was suddenly filled with hope beyond measure which was surely not the detective’s intention. But, he planted the seed of hope, and it had taken up eager residence deep in my heart within seconds.

  Hope was the baneful shadow of acceptance. .

  Suddenly, I had questions and an excited anxious deliberation settled over me.

  After a bite to eat, I was going to look into all our financials in your office, my darling. Perhaps there is something filed away that you had forgotten to share with me. Anything was possible. Everything was possible now.

  But not before a bath.

  I opened the door to your office in our home and wondered where I should begin while I towel-dried my hair. A bit of food and a hot bath had been transforming. I felt energized, eager, enthusiastic even. I was so glad that I answered the door to the detective and I almost had not.

  Your desk was the obvious place to start. Perhaps there was a box, or keys to a secret compartment. Perhaps there was a file you knew I would find in the event anything happened to you. It could be as simple as that.

  But, it wasn’t.

  I labored for hours until, finally, I felt beleaguered. I moved to the leather sofa near the bookcase, sat and stared at your desk, willing it to impart the secrets within.

  But, it did not.

  I slipped into the warm folds of the sofa and laid my head upon the well-worn leather of the arm. The heavy fur throw we called ‘Bear’ on the back slid against my hip and I pulled it over me. I imagined I was watching you work at your desk, as I often did, while I sat here in this very spot. I felt close to you all over again. ‘Bear’ wrapped me in your embrace as a final despondent tear escaped.

  As I drifted into the dark abyss, I thought I heard you calling my name. Your voice gave me hope and it filled me with peace. I knew we would be together. Someday... someway... somehow. I will wait for you...

  Hours later, it seemed to me, I heard music. Yes, in the distance, but music still. It was our wedding ballad; I know it was...How did it go? I will be right here waiting for you. Ah, yes, Right Here Waiting by Richard Marx. I hummed the tune in my head and I saw you in my dream, whirling me around the dance floor in front of my family and our friends.

  Oh, Damien, how happy you made me; how happy we were together. How I miss you...

  The image went gray, the music softly faded, overtaken by unfamiliar sounds coming from the center of the house. Perhaps you were finding your way back to my dream, perhaps... if I am very still, you will return and I will feel your arms about me once again.

  Alas, when I finally woke, Bear was firmly in my grasp, wrapped tightly around my body where you should have been. While I unfurled myself from the warm cocoon in which I slept, I looked up and saw you sitting at your desk. I rubbed my eyes, my breath caught in my throat.

  “Damien...?”

  “Yes, darling. I wondered how long before you woke.”

  “What?!”

  “I have been waiting for you to wake.”

  “Well, I’m awake now... what happened to you? Where have you been? Why didn’t you call? Tell me. Tell me! Goddammit!”

  “In due time, my love, in due time...”

  “In due time...?”

  “There is an explanation for everything. What is most important is that I’m here now, with you, in our home together.”

  I could not hold back the tears, nor my impulse to throw myself into your arms... and so, I didn’t. I covered your face in my kisses, buried my fingers in your hair, pressed my heart to your heart. My tongue dar
ted into your mouth to savor the familiar flavors of your love. The long, lost dance between our tongues began—curling, twisting, turning and exploring every small fold and secret place left too long unattended.

  You smelled the same.

  You felt the same.

  Your touch was the same.

  Your heart beat with mine—the same as it always had.

  I found the spot of comfort in your embrace as I curled into a tight, heartbroken ball on your lap and yet...

  Where had you been? Why had you forsaken me? You broke from our kiss and brushed an errant curl from my face. Your question pierced my thoughts and deflated the overwhelming feeling of comfort and relief.

  “The man that was just here. How do you know him?”

  “Pardon me? You have been gone for months; no word from you, no proof of life, nor death. Are you serious?”

  I beat my fists furiously against your chest while tears of pain and frustration welled in my eyes.

  “Yes, my love, I’m very serious—deadly so. This is of the utmost importance. How do you know him?”

  “Damien... I don’t know him. How can you even suggest that?” My temper raised in heated measures burning and chafing all the while.

  “Trust me, darling, as you always have. There will be time for your anger later.”

  “I do not know that man, Damien. I have never met him nor have I ever seen him before today.”

  “Then what was he doing here?”

  “He’s a detective, Damien, investigating your disappearance. He had proper identification and knew a lot about you. Here! I have his card. He knew a lot about the boat and Carey. Oh my God, Carey! Is he alive? I thought he was trying to solve the mystery of what happened to you and Carey. He wasn’t? What the Hell is going on?”

  You took the business card from my hand and studied it.

  I yanked my hand back fiercely and knocked the phone off your desk. I didn’t care.

  “Here, here, my darling. Please, forgive me for being away and so silent. I couldn’t stay away. No matter what happens, I have to be with you. I could not face another day—let alone a lifetime—without you. Lisbet, my love, forgive me, please. You must believe me, though; I never would have if I thought there was any other way to protect you.”

  “Protect me...? Damien...! I am so confused.”

  And with that I began to cry. This time I was in your arms, at least, thank God.

  Damien held me and rocked me in his embrace. He brushed from my cheeks the tears that fell in rivulets down my face and muffled my sobs with his kisses. I couldn’t stop sobbing—at first with love and anger, and then in complete relief.

  “Why didn’t you call me? Why did you let me ache? For whatever reason you chose to disappear, why didn’t you just let me know it was all a ruse? I’ve been in agony, Damien.”

  “I know, darling. I know and I feel awful about it. But if I had told you I was fine, and it was all a façade, when you were interviewed by the insurance inspectors or police, would you have been as convincing?”

  “Convincing? Would I have been as convincing...? Would I have been as convincing?”

  “Lisbet, please, darling. Calm down. Please, take a breath and slow down. I’m sure you will see my reasoning once you understand the full breadth of the situation.”

  “We have a situation, Damien? When did this ‘situation’ develop? When did a situation overrule our relationship, our trust, our vows? When did a situation creep into our marriage and take precedence over everything we hold dear? When did a situation become more important than me?” I wept. I wailed. I fought the embrace meant to comfort me. I wanted to wound Damien as much as his selfish, thoughtless disappearance hurt me. I wanted him to feel the cavernous, black abyss of hopelessness I accepted as my fate when I finally acknowledged his death.

  All the while, he lived and breathed as I prayed to join him in death, agonized by his loss.

  I stared at him with unyielding intensity. I defied Damien to give me an explanation that I could—would—accept as plausible and believable to the point of forgiveness or acceptance. I wanted to be joyous about his return, his life, his every breath. I was jubilant that he was still alive. But I was angry; I felt deceived—betrayed.

  I could not forgive him, and yet, I fell into his embrace.

  My knees were weak; my heart hammered, erratic with relief and desire. My mind blazed with anger. This wonderful man I loved once, and thought dead, had returned to me and reignited my life. I regained my composure, if only briefly.

  “Tell me. Tell me everything. Leave nothing out. Spare me no detail, however minor you think it may be. Where have you been and why?”

  “I promise to tell you everything when I can. Right now, you must have blind faith in me, in our love, in my desire to protect you.”

  “Protect me? Protect me from what? What is happening, Damien? Oh, my God...”

  “God plays no part in what I must do. What I had to do.”

  “Then, what does? Me, our life together, our love?”

  “Yes, but I cannot tell you more now. Please Lisbet, if you ever trusted me, you must trust me again now. If you ever loved me...”

  “If? If? How can you even suggest that my love for you is questionable? I almost died here, in our home. I wanted to die, I missed you so much. I never thought I would be faced with the prospect of living without you and when I was, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to live without you. I wrapped myself in ‘Bear’ and prayed for God to take me and join us in death, or bring you back to me.”

  “If I believed in God, I would say He brought me back to you.”

  “Oh, my God! Damien, you are right! You are so right! He did bring you back to me. Is it, was it, against your will?”

  “No, darling, it was not against my will. I love you with every fiber of my soul. I could not forsake you.”

  I buried my face in your chest and felt your heart beating against each of my tears. Whatever took you from me, had returned you—to hold in my arms. I cried for my happiness, no longer angry, but perplexed. I trusted that you would tell me, in time and in good faith. I thanked God for your life, and for mine, restored with a heart beating full of hope and promise.

  You cooed and comforted me until the aroma of your aftershave seduced my mind and charged my stomach with a mounting desire. It had been a long time since I felt your touch, your strong arms around me, your heated palms on my back. You exhaled against my neck, and your breath felt like molten lava as it crawled down my cleavage. How was it possible that a sensation so hot could be responsible for the trail of gooseflesh left in its wake? Ah, the magic of passion; it was unexplainable. Something beyond explanation, requiring only acceptance: it was not up to me to ask why and question the power or the rhythm of the Universe.

  I accepted my good fortune and melted into your body.

  My God, how I missed you.

  I could breathe again.

  You touched my face and kissed my tears. I felt the errant curls that wildly framed my face, which still felt hot and flushed from anger, but softening to desire. Your heart hammered an erratic refrain of passion and yearning against my breast pressed firmly against you. Had you missed me too? Your touched convinced me you had. My heart quickened to meet the cadence of yours, and the tempo of our excitement wove a fervent melody in which our bodies sang with a single melodic instrument. My breath quickened under the heat of your hunger. It was as if you never left me, the beat of our love so predetermined our need. It was always like that—irresistible, intense, and inevitable.

  Still, in the back of my mind, I wondered. My imagination ran. Like a child raised by wolves, it careened—erratic and uncontrollable—to the dark recesses where fear resided, peeking out sporadically to spew its demons and cast panic in its wake. I did not know where you had gone, nor why. For now, it did not matter. It would, later.

  For now, your caress softened the months of anguish, the solemn destiny carved out by your death. I existed in that sc
reaming darkness until the moment I woke to your voice. It was in that moment where hope rode back into my heart on ribbons of sunlight and warmed my shriveled soul.

  Is it possible this was all a terrible mistake? Could it be that, in a long night’s silent sleep, a nightmare had trafficked upon my apprehension, stolen what little reason I possessed that you would return—that you were not gone and had never left me at all—and I would wake as I had to your impatient smile? Is that what happened? I left my thoughts in the sunset and drifted in your embrace to a place of warmth and security. I did not care. My love, my life—you—had returned when my hours were at their darkest. The ebb of my life filtered back into my soul with each kiss. I was not dead. I had not joined you in death, but pulled you back. I was sure the power of my love had brought you back to me somehow—and that was good enough for me, for now.

  Suddenly, there was a rap on the door, followed quickly by the doorbell. I startled. You stiffened as if poised for fight or flight.

  “Who can that be?”

  “I don’t know, Damien. I’m certainly not expecting anyone. Did you make arrangements to meet Carey here? How is Carey; where is he? Did he die in the boat explosion?”

  “I told you. I’ll explain later. You must answer the door. See who it is, but don’t let them in until you tell me.”

  “Okay, give me a minute.”

  I rose, softly padded to the front door, and flipped all the locks save the security chain. I opened the door as far as the chain would allow.

  “Yes?”

  “Lisbet, it’s Detective Dick French.”

  “Yes, Detective? What are you doing back here?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I left my cell on the end table. May I come in?”

  “No, Detective, you may not. Please wait. I will get your phone.”

  I left the door ajar, secured by the security chain while I turned to get the phone. I looked on the end table, saw his cell phone and retrieved it only to find the detective standing in my living room behind me—the door open and the chain swinging.