by Donna Hill
They laughed absently at the memory.
“And there in the back of the closet was the easel. The first one you ever bought. When I saw it sitting there, everything came rushing back. All those mornings when I would wake up and you were sitting in that raggedy sweatshirt with the paint stains in front of the window with the most intense expression on your face while you painted. And when you would hear me stir you’d turn toward me and the smile and the light that sparkled in your eyes would fill me up.”
For a moment he looked away and then back at her.
“I took the easel out of the closet and suddenly you were back with me again. At least a part of you.” He gave a short laugh. “I know I must sound like a fool telling you all this, hanging on to an inanimate object like some kind of trophy, but it gave me what I needed to move on with my life. When I would see you sitting there in the morning, it was a symbol of possibility. And having that part of you allowed me to feel that again. That’s why I kept it, and that’s why I want you to have it.”
Desiree covered her face with her hands and wept.
“Desi.” Lincoln sat beside her and gathered her in his arms. “Don’t cry, babe. I didn’t tell you all that to upset you.”
“I’ve been so damned selfish and self-centered,” she uttered between her sobs. “I wouldn’t allow myself to think about how what I’d done made you feel, what it was doing to you. It was easier to run.”
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s the past. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“No,” she said, her voice cracking. “I need to hear it. I need to understand it.” She sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “It was so unfair to you.” She looked at him through tear-filled eyes. “How can I ever make it right?”
“You can start by changing clothes and getting ready for our dinner date at B. Smith’s.” He smiled gently at her and her heart seemed to shift in her chest.
She nodded her head and grinned, then wiped away the last of her tears. “All this for a dinner date?” She sniffed. “Will you stop at nothing?”
He shrugged and gave her a boyish grin. “Can’t blame a man for tryin’. But you know what, Ms. Armstrong?” He pulled her to her feet. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Chapter 18
Alone in her bedroom, Desiree trembled as she stared at the easel by the window. She wrapped her arms around her body to stave off the shudders that ran amok up and down her body. Lincoln’s words echoed in her head. To him the easel was a symbol of possibility.
At one time in her life it meant the same thing to her. But now it symbolized loss and fear. She couldn’t tell him that. Not after all he’d said and all he’d been through.
She was deeply touched by the gesture, understanding that Lincoln was only doing what he thought was best. The truth was she’d done everything in her power not to scream. Her tears were not tears of joy but of terror. Terror that the nightmares would now return with a vengeance, since the symbols of her near destruction were within eyesight.
Slowly Desiree sat down at the foot of the bed and covered her face with her hands. Her heart raced.
Rationally, she understood that in order to beat your fears you must confront them. Lincoln was one. She’d allowed the door to her heart to crack open, letting in the light of his smile, the comfort of his warmth into her soul, the memories into her mind. But she wasn’t ready to let him in all the way and wasn’t sure when she would be—if ever.
She experienced a momentary bout of bravery by allowing herself to admit out loud that she still loved him, still wanted him. To take it further than that—a thought, an utterance in the confines of her room? She wasn’t ready, and she never should have led him on by kissing him.
She’d been trying to prepare herself for the next step with him when she felt stronger inside, more certain of her emotions. She knew that if she rekindled a relationship with Lincoln she would have to tell him the whole truth, tell him everything. She hadn’t reached that point yet.
Desiree stole a glance at the easel. Now this. Whatever bravado she felt had been pulled out from under her like a rug. Lincoln would undoubtedly expect her to start painting—or tossing paint at the bare minimum. The thought of picking up a brush made her head spin.
The scent of turpentine and paint suddenly filled her nostrils, followed by the acrid odor of smoke and burning wood. She ran to the bathroom and leaned over the bowl. Her stomach knotted, rose and fell as a cold, clammy sweat claimed her body. She stayed on her hands and knees for what felt like an eternity as wave upon wave of that night rushed up from her belly and released itself.
On shaky legs she finally rose from the cool black-and-white-tiled floor and turned on the cold water in the sink, splashing it on her face. She dampened a cloth and pressed it to the back of her neck until she began to feel human.
Desiree looked at herself in the mirror. Rings of black underlined her eyes, giving her a cartoonish look. Her face was flushed and her eyes glassy.
The doctors called what just happened to her an olfactory hallucination. She called it crazy. It was making her crazy.
She hadn’t experienced an episode since before her arrival at The Port. They’d been nightly visitors prior, unwanted guests that tramped through her mind at will.
This was one of the worst.
She took one of the washcloths and scrubbed her face clean of makeup, brushed her teeth and rinsed her mouth. If she intended to keep her dinner date with Lincoln she’d have to pull herself together. She braced her hands on the sides of the sink and took long, deep breaths, but she didn’t have the will or the strength to do much more than that.
Desiree returned to the bedroom and picked up the phone, noticing for the first time the flashing red light indicating that she had a message waiting. The only person who knew she was there was Rachel. Maybe she’d call her later. Rachel knew her much too well and would immediately sense that something was wrong, and she wasn’t up for dancing around what would surely be Rachel’s relentless line of questioning.
Instead she called the main house and left a message for Lincoln. She was more tired than she realized, she’d said, and hoped that he would understand her canceling their dinner.
With that done, she got out of her clothes, put on a gown and crawled beneath the cool covers, silently praying that her guests would leave her be for a few hours.
* * *
“Oh, there you are, Mr. D.,” Terri said as Lincoln walked into the reception area, whistling. “I have a message for you.” She handed him a slip of paper. “I’m heading home. Grace is here and I brought her up to date on everything.” She slung her purse over her left shoulder and angled her head to the side. His whistling stopped. “Are you okay, Mr. D.?”
Lincoln read the words again, before finally looking up at Terri. He crushed the paper into a ball and tossed it into the wicker wastebasket near the desk.
“I’m fine. Have a good evening,” he muttered absently and walked off to his office.
Sitting behind his desk, Lincoln recapped the entire day with Desiree. Everything seemed fine. She was happy, smiling, and she acted as if she still cared. The kiss…was that just, what, an act? A means of testing the waters?
She’d changed her mind for a reason. He’d left her barely an hour ago. What happened?
Get a grip, man, he admonished himself. Maybe she really was tired. He shouldn’t take it personally. He pushed away from the desk, stood and walked to the window. With more force than needed he pushed the curtains aside. Damn it, he did take it personally.
“What are you trying to pull, Desiree? What’s really going on with you?”
Chapter 19
Cynthia crossed, then uncrossed her legs before positioning herself in the stiff wooden chair.
Mr. Wells, the insura
nce adjuster, took off his glasses and set them next to his yellow legal pad on his desk.
“Ms. Hastings, I want to go over some information with you about the fire.”
“I’ve already told the fire department everything I know.” She tugged at the hem of her jacket, pulling it taut against her slender frame.
Mr. Wells smiled. “I know. But for the purposes of my investigation I need to ask my own questions. So please bear with me.”
Cynthia sucked on her bottom lip with her teeth and lifted her chin. “Fine, but you’re just wasting your time.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? Now, tell me, did you notice anything odd about Ms. Armstrong lately?”
Cynthia frowned, taken aback by the question. She leaned slightly forward. “Desiree? What do you mean ‘odd’?”
Mr. Wells linked his short fingers together. “Was she overly anxious?” He shrugged slightly. “Nervous or forgetful lately?”
“I…” She paused for a moment. “Well…she had been on edge recently,” she offered, hesitating over each word.
“What do you mean?”
“She was behind in her work. Mr. Hampton was calling and dropping by every day, and it was really bugging her. She was trying to get her work together for her very first exhibit and she didn’t think she would have it done in time.”
“I see.” He leaned back in his chair. “Did she confide in you about how she was feeling—this pressure she was under by Mr. Hampton, for instance?”
“She’d mentioned something once or twice. She didn’t come right out and say anything, but I knew,” she added.
“How is that?”
“Desiree is always pleasant, easy to work with. But the closer she got to the exhibit date, and the more Mr. Hampton kept dropping by, the more short-tempered she became. She started forgetting things and blaming me for orders that were missing or incorrect when she was the one who’d made the mistakes.”
“Interesting,” he murmured and made some notes on his pad. “Tell me, Ms. Hastings, if she were unable to complete the work in time, what would have happened?”
“The show would have to be canceled, of course, and Mr. Hampton would lose thousands of dollars. He’d made a major investment.”
“Do you think Ms. Armstrong was capable of setting the fire herself to get out of the commitment she couldn’t keep—get herself off the hook so to speak?”
Cynthia pulled in a breath. “I don’t know,” she said, inching out every word. “I suppose anything is possible. Just hard to believe that Desiree would do something like that.”
Mr. Wells slid his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and glanced at her over the top of them. “And where were you on the night of the fire?”
Her nostrils suddenly flared as if she couldn’t quite breathe. “I was at home,” she stated, her tone sharp and precise. She clenched her hands together on her lap.
Mr. Wells made a note on his pad. “Did Ms. Armstrong and Mr. Hampton get along well?”
“Yes.”
“Were they more than…business associates?”
Cynthia stiffened her shoulders. “I really wouldn’t know.”
“You’re a very intelligent woman. You may not know for certain, but I’m sure you can guess.”
“Do I know if they were more than just business associates? No. But as I said earlier, anything is possible.”
Abruptly, he stood and extended his hand, effectively ending their conversation. “You’ve been very helpful, Ms. Hastings.”
Caught off guard by the swift change in direction, Cynthia needed a moment to react. Finally she shook his hand as she stood up.
“If I have any further questions, I’ll be sure to be in touch.”
She nodded and reached for her purse, then turned to leave.
“Oh, and, Ms. Hastings,” he called out just as her hand cupped the doorknob.
She glanced at him from over her shoulder.
“If you think of anything, I do expect that you’d give me a call.”
She looked at him a second, then opened the door and walked out.
Cynthia stepped into the elevator. Realizing that she was alone, she leaned back against the wall and shut her eyes. Was it possible that Desiree was responsible?
* * *
“What’s the holdup with the insurance payout?” Sylvester Ward, one of Carl’s major investors, asked.
Over the years, Carl had made a practice of finding people with money and convincing them that investing in his various enterprises would always be worth their while. Sylvester was one of his earliest and most longstanding “partners.” He’d pumped millions of dollars into numerous ventures over the years This was small potatoes to Sly, but for some unknown reason he had a real bug up his behind about his money. And he was making Carl’s life hell.
Carl’s accountant spoke up.
“We’re working out the details, Mr. Ward. In cases like this, the insurance company wants to cross every t—”
“I don’t want to hear that crap. I want to know how and when I’m going to get my money back.” He pulled out a cigar from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and snipped off the end with a deadly looking little gadget, then lit up and blew a puff of noxious smoke into the air.
Carl hated the smell of cigars, especially the cheap ones that Sylvester smoked. One would think that with all the money he made he would invest in a good cigar, one that didn’t have the stench of death.
The accountant coughed once and quickly apologized.
Sylvester pointed the cigar at Carl. “We’ve been working together for a lot of years, Carl. Made a lot of money together. But I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t like how this is shaping up. I don’t like that the insurance company is dragging its feet, and from what I hear the fire department is questioning whether or not it was arson. I can’t have my name attached to any scandals, Carl. I’m sure you understand.”
The air in the conference room evaporated. A cloud of smoke hung over the table like fog over L.A. during rush hour in the summer.
Carl blinked rapidly to ease the sting in his eyes.
“Sylvester, I understand. And I’m sure you understand that my hands are tied. I’m sure this will all be worked out in no time.”
“That’s not good enough. You see, I have other investments. I need my money.”
“Be reasonable. If everything had gone according to schedule, you wouldn’t have gotten a return on your money for at least another six months.”
Sylvester blew more smoke into the air. “Since the situation has changed, the deal has changed. I want out and I want my money.” He stood.
His six-foot-six, three-hundred-pound body cast a long shadow across the table. “Tell you what. Since we’ve been friends for so long, I’ll give you a week from today. I’ll expect to see you in my office, say around six. We could go out for drinks afterward.” He smiled and his gold right incisor gleamed through the cloud. “Deal?”
Carl stood. It took all he had to remain calm and civil. “Deal.” He shrugged slightly. “That’s fair. It will be all cleared up by then anyway.” He came around the table to walk Sylvester to the door. He patted him heartily on the back. “Always a pleasure, Sly.”
Sylvester chuckled. “Let it stay that way.” He opened the door and walked out in a cloud of smoke.
Chapter 20
Desiree woke up the following morning achy and foggy. All night she had recurring dreams of running. She ran through the woods, across the white sands of the beach, through the streets of New York, away from everything and everyone that was familiar. Her mother, aunts and sisters chased her. Rachel was in pursuit. She could hear the pounding of Lincoln’s footsteps behind her. But she was too fast for t
hem, too clever. She outsmarted them all. She hid behind a facade of independence, self-reliance and resiliency. They couldn’t penetrate that, couldn’t get beyond her protective shield.
By the end of the dream, moments before the sun crested the horizon, Desiree found herself standing alone, with nowhere to go.
She lay in bed staring up at the ceiling as slivers of light crept across the floor through the thin slats of the blinds. How could she continue to live this way in a constant state of fear and denial? She’d hoped that getting away would somehow lift the weight that sat so heavily on her soul. All it had done was force her to realize that she was tired of running but she was still too afraid to stop. If she did all that everyone believed of her, and what she’d convinced herself of, everything would come crashing down around her and then she truly would have nothing.
* * *
Lincoln awoke with the sun, barely having slept a full two hours during the night. More than once he’d thought of going to Desiree’s cabin and confronting her once and for all.
She was hiding something. He was sure of that. But what? He understood her trauma about the fire. But he could not understand what was happening between them. He wanted to help her in any way that he could, but the instant he got close she pushed him away. It had always been that way between them, long before they lost the baby. But afterward she’d gotten worse, more withdrawn and closed, until he couldn’t reach her at all.
What else had happened in her life that made her so fearful of living it to the fullest, to embrace it with the same fierce passion that she’d once had for her work? He knew in his gut that something in her past was at the root of it. But what?
Pulling himself up from the bed, he went into the bathroom, took a quick shower and got dressed. He was going to get some answers one way or the other.
He went to his dresser, pulled out some necessary items and tossed them into an overnight bag. He grabbed his jacket, wallet and car keys and headed out.
