"Why are you here, Alexis? Why did you come to the island?"
She pretended she hadn't heard. "I'm thirsty. Are you? Why don't I make you something to keep you warm on the trip home?" She left the room without waiting for his answer.
Matthew felt a stab of impatience. He wanted an answer, but he hadn't been strictly honest with himself. It wasn't just curiosity that had prompted his question. It was concern.
He shut the stove door hard enough that he could hear the wood scattering inside. He gazed around the room as if it could tell him Alexis's secret. But the only thing it told him was that she traveled light. There were two pieces of furniture. Both, he imagined, had been here already. There was a small scatter rug in front of the chair, and potted plants on the floor beside the sofa that sat in front of the window. The room was otherwise empty, except for an open crate of books beside the plants, serving halfheartedly as a bookcase.
Without even a twinge of guilt he strode to the crate, bending over it to search for the city from which it had been shipped. But there was no address other than the post office at Parndana. The books themselves were a conglomeration of titles ranging from philosophy to light reading. Most of the books were old; some looked well-loved, as if they had been read time and time again. Only a few of them looked new. He bent further, to examine their titles, and was surprised to see that the three new books were identical. Not one of them looked as if it had ever been opened.
"Before I Sleep" he murmured. "D.A. Meredith."
The name tickled some elusive memory, buried under layers of more vital information. He knew he could stand there all day and still not isolate it, but he knew something else. It was no accident that Alexis had three seemingly untouched copies of the same book. She traveled light. Even her daughter's room was devoid of most of the small touches that would have made it seem like home. So the books had to be important.
"D.A. Meredith." He wanted to lift one from the crate and thumb through it, but he knew Alexis would come looking for him if he took any longer. Eventually he would remember the significance of the name, and if he didn't, there were libraries on the island and a bookstore in Kingscote. Someone would help him remember, and someone would have the book.
In the kitchen Alexis put the finishing touches on Irish coffee, adding thick cream she had gotten the day before in Parndana. Silently she rehearsed the story she would tell Matthew.
He joined her silently. Before she could sit at the table, he stopped her, cupping his hand under her elbow. "Would you like to sit on the porch? It's a bit cold, but you could change into something warmer."
"What about you?"
"I'll be fine in this."
She liked the idea of sitting in the dark with him. The porch was wide and old, with benches spanning its length. She sat there often, listening to the rustlings of the night creatures and the surf pounding the shore of Hanson Bay.
"I'll just be a minute." She left him to carry their cups outside.
Matthew settled on a bench, leaning back against the wall, and waited for her. When she came out she was dressed in a jacket and comfortable baggy slacks that emphasized her tiny waist. She held out her hands. "I've got something here that might fit you. Do you call this a jumper like they do in New Zealand?"
"I grew up in New York calling it a sweater." He reached for the sweater, and their hands brushed.
Alexis pulled hers back as if she had given offense. "Try it on."
The sweater was hand knit and as soft as the sheep it had come from. It was a snug fit, but its warmth was welcome.
"I got the sweater in New Zealand. It was made by an old Maori woman from wool she spun herself. She told me it would bring me luck."
"And has it?"
"That depends on how you look at it, I guess." Alexis had decided to volunteer enough of her story to keep Matthew from asking questions she couldn't answer. It was an old trick, one she had grown adept at over the years. She wished she'd never had to learn it. "A little while ago you asked me why I came here."
He was surprised she'd gotten so quickly to the point. "And you ignored me."
"It's not an easy question to answer. I'm not proud of why I'm here. I'm running away."
He turned so that he could see her face. There was just enough moonlight for him to distinguish her features, but not to read her expression. "From what?"
"A life I didn't want." She cupped her mug in her hands, but even its added heat couldn't keep her from shivering.
"You're cold."
"Not really. I just don't like talking about the past."
"You don't have to."
"Let me tell you. Then I won't have to tell you again."
He moved a little closer, hoping to warm her.
"I've been divorced for four years. The divorce wasn't...pleasant. Jody's father, Charles, is a difficult man. He's used to getting what he wants, and he didn't want the divorce. So..." She sipped her coffee, trying to phrase the next part in her head before she spoke. "It finally became clear to me that I wasn't going to have a life of my own unless I got away from him. I took Jody and left the country, hoping that if we were gone, he could begin to make a new life for himself, too. Jody and I traveled for a while, looking for a place to settle down. I found out about Kangaroo Island from my attorney. Peter Bartow is his cousin. So here we are."
He suspected she had developed condensation into an art form. "Jody doesn't miss her father?"
"They were never close." Alexis wanted to laugh at her own irony. It was certainly true. She had done everything she could to keep Charles from getting close to Jody, because it had been clear from the start that he wouldn't tolerate her normal imperfections any more than he tolerated his wife's. Alexis had shielded and sheltered her daughter, and Charles had continued to vent his hostilities where he'd vented them since the first day of his marriage.
"Does your former husband know where you are?"
"I don't think so." She forced herself to lie, knowing she needed to put the discussion to rest. "I doubt he cares anymore. Out of sight, out of mind."
Her explanation was as full of holes as the island's famous granite boulders at Cape du Couedic. It said nothing about the fear in her eyes, about her own admission that she'd been hunted, about hands protecting her face. It said nothing about a house empty of personal belongings and a decision to live in an area so isolated that only a jungle guide could have found her.
She might be telling less than the truth simply because she owed him no explanation, but Matthew doubted that was the reason. If the moon were brighter, he was certain he would see desperation in her eyes.
"What are you afraid of, then?" he asked softly. "Who did you think you'd see the night I came to your kitchen door?"
She exhaled sharply, as if she'd been praying he wouldn't ask. "No one," she said, too quickly. "It was late, and I was tired. Maybe I was afraid of ghosts. I don't know. My imagination knows no bounds. That's why I'm a writer."
He sat back. He knew she wasn't going to answer any more questions about her fears. "Was your book successful?"
She was counting her lies now, totaling them against her fear of exposure. "Moderately. Enough to pay the bills."
"What was it called?"
She laughed, hoping to throw him off track. "I'm not going to answer that one. You wouldn't believe the people who think they understand everything about me after reading my book."
"But they don't?"
"No one understands anyone. How can they?"
He didn't need moonlight to hear desperation. It was the fine honed edge to a voice usually musical and gentle. He set down his mug and moved closer to her. His arm crept slowly around her waist.
"No one can understand if they're not given the chance."
"This is getting dangerously close to comfort."
"Is that what this is?" Matthew rested his other hand on her shoulder and turned her slightly so she was facing him. "Perhaps I was wrong, then. Perhaps I have some comfort to offer yo
u. And perhaps you have some to offer me."
"The only man I ever offered my comfort to found it sadly lacking."
"But we already know he's a fool." His fingers threaded into her hair, and his thumb caressed her jawline.
Alexis studied his face. There were shadows there that weren't created by the moonlight. "Charles is not a fool. I only wish he were."
He waited for her to say more, but she just continued studying his face. "What do you see?" he asked at last. "A man like the others you've known?"
"I see a man who's suffered but never made anyone else suffer because of him. I see a man who's still suffering and doesn't believe it will ever end." She reached up to touch his lips to silence him. "And I see a man who wants solace, but nothing more."
He waited until her hand was in her lap again. "Do you see a man who wants to kiss you?"
"I see a man who wants more than a kiss. He wants to lose himself in a woman. But then he wants to go back to his suffering."
"It's not a choice, Alexis. I can't change the events of my life."
"I know. Neither can I." She leaned closer, lifting her face to his. "But I can kiss you."
He hesitated only momentarily. Then his hand cupped the nape of her neck, and he held her still as he took her mouth. It was sweet and soft, and it molded to his as if he had always been kissing her.
She sighed and draped her arms loosely around his neck, moving closer. His other hand lifted to her hair, and he let it slip through his fingers again and again.
With feather light strokes Alexis discovered the width of his shoulders, the warm skin of his neck, the slight wave in his hair. She opened her mouth to his exploration and felt the slow rhythm of his tongue in a place deep inside her.
The kiss became two, then three. And there was nothing comforting about the kisses or the concern on two faces when they finally broke apart. Alexis brushed Matthew's bottom lip with her thumb, then moved away from him to stare out into the night.
"A kiss seemed like a small thing to ask," she said.
"Yes."
"There's no place in your life for me, and I have no place for you. I have to make my way alone."
Matthew leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. His heart still slammed against his rib cage, a helpless victim of two people who wanted and couldn't have, who had tasted and learned that hunger couldn't be appeased by so little.
"Alone is all there is."
Alexis stared out into the night. "It would be easier if I believed you," she said at last. "But how can I, when I know you only wish it were true?"
* * *
MATTHEW SPENT THE hour before dawn trying to put together everything he had remembered about D.A. Meredith. He had awakened with one fact a shining beacon on his search. Before I Sleep had been a smash bestseller, flying out of bookstores as if it had wings of its own. The thing that made it most unusual, however, was that D.A. Meredith was a pseudonym, and the author had refused to step forward to take credit where it was due. There had been conjecture in the press, but the universal consensus was that events in the novel were based on the lives of real people.
D. A. Meredith was said to be afraid to admit to writing the book, because if she did, fingers would be pointed and lawsuits initiated.
By remaining anonymous, no one could be sure who she had known and not known.
There had been more, but Matthew had quickly lost interest. The whole furor had seemed like nothing more than a publicity gimmick. He found such pleasure in reading that he didn't want to feel manipulated by publishers and booksellers. Too, his taste ran more to nonfiction, and what fiction he read was usually set in Australia.
Now he wished he hadn't been so indifferent. He knew there was more to the story, but memory had served him as well as it could. He either had to get hold of the book himself or talk to someone who had.
The someone who had was Harry Arnold.
Harry had been a Flinders Chase ranger for twenty-nine years. He always said that if he hadn't liked to read, they would have had to cart him to the nuthouse years before, because all the clean air, quiet nights and clear views of the Southern Cross were enough to drive any man insane. Harry read everything that came his way. It was all the same to him: mysteries, romances, cookbooks. The librarians in Kingscote and Penneshaw were his best friends—next to Matthew.
Now that Harry's hearing had begun to fail, reading was even more important to him. His wife had died twelve years before, and although he sent the hearts of every single island woman over fifty into overdrive, he had no thoughts of remarriage. He romanced them all, spreading his attentions with no thought of favoritism. But what Harry loved best was a good book.
He was in the middle of one when Matthew found him eating breakfast. "G'day," Matthew said, tapping Harry on the shoulder.
"I knew you were there." Harry finished his paragraph before he looked up. "I'm wearing me box."
Harry's "box" was tiny, almost invisible. To hear Harry tell it, it weighed sixty pounds and was slowly extending his ear lobe by an inch a week. The "box," however, kept Harry from having to take early retirement. And since everyone knew that the Chase wouldn't be the same place without Harry Arnold, everyone encouraged him to wear it.
"Mind if I have some tea?"
"You know where I keep the kettle."
Matthew hadn't used Harry's kettle for three years, but he found it anyway, filling it with fresh water and setting it on the burner before he returned to the table. "What are you reading?"
"You're a regular fountain of questions this morning." Harry turned the page and looked up, smiling to be sure his teasing wasn't misunderstood. "Have a good day yesterday?"
Matthew wouldn't have used "good" to describe it, but he decided it was safer to nod than to explain. "You?"
"I started this book." He held it up for Matthew to read the title.
"You're planning to take up scuba diving?"
"In me dreams." Harry marked his place with an old envelope, then set the book aside. "Now, what are you doing here, Matthew? Not that I'm sad to see you, you understand."
"Have you read a book called Before I Sleep!"
"It's on me bookshelf. I got it from the library last year, then bought me own copy."
"Then you liked it?"
Harry appeared to be considering the question. "I can't say I liked it," he said finally. "No, I can't say that. But it stuck with me."
"Why?" The kettle began to whistle, but Matthew ignored it.
"It's a bloody good book. Good story, good characters, and it made me think."
"But you didn't like it?"
"I like detective novels. I like books about the American west and the outback. I can read one, then go about me business. I took a while to do that after Before I Sleep."
"What's it about?"
"Why are you so interested? And would you please get the bloody kettle, or I'll lose what little hearing I've got left."
Matthew got the kettle, making a pot of tea to bring back to the table for them both. He sprawled across from Harry as he waited for it to brew. "Yesterday I noticed Alexis had several copies of the book. I was just curious why."
"You could have asked her. You are talking to her, aren't you?"
"There are things she doesn't talk about."
Harry nodded sagely. "She's one of the walking wounded, too, is she?"
"What's the book about, Harry?"
"It's been a while since I read it, but it's an American book. The main character is a woman trapped in a bad marriage. Her husband bashes her, but nobody believes it because the rest of the world sees a different side of him. There are other characters, too, a right good love story and lots of corporate shenanigans, even a bit about organized crime that makes The Godfather look like a child's primer. But the main thing I remember is the abused wife and her struggle."
Matthew made a tent of his fingers. For a moment he didn't want to go on with his questioning. The problem with questions was that sometimes yo
u got answers.
"She dies at the end," Harry said when Matthew didn't speak. "She dies because nobody will help her."
Matthew jerked forward, reaching for the teapot. "What do you know about the author?"
"At first there was a big set-to about who wrote it. Seems the publisher made up a biography, but when reporters tried to find D.A. Meredith to interview her, they couldn't. Then there was speculation that she didn't exist. Some thought the book had been written by a collection of people, one of those 'you take chapter one, I'll take chapter two' schemes. But anyone who's read the book seriously knows only one person could have written it."
"Did they find the author?"
"They did, finally. Apparently the publishers had hid the trail to her so cleverly that it took most of a year, but some enterprising bloke finally located her. She was the former wife of one of the big shots in the automobile industry. She refused to admit she'd written the book, but the evidence was clear. When she couldn't deny it any longer she admitted writing the book but refused to admit that it had any basis in reality. There were those who thought she'd written it because her divorce settlement was so small." Harry held out his cup and watched Matthew fill it.
"You make a good cuppa," he complimented.
"Anything else about the author?" Matthew asked as casually as he could.
"Somebody got hold of the preliminary papers in her divorce suit. The main papers were sealed, but the preliminary papers were enough to link the woman's ex-husband to some thinly veiled incidents in the book. The publicity was fierce. If I recall, there was even a move to boycott autos from that company. It became a real women's issue. And all the while, D.A. Meredith kept right on refusing to say if the book had any basis in fact."
Matthew sat silently so long that his tea was cool before he raised it to his lips. "What finally happened to the author?"
Harry shrugged. "The excitement died down. People found something new. The author secluded herself somewhere to write another book. Her former husband lost his job but got snapped up by another automaker. Life went on."
"Secluded herself?"
"She just disappeared one day, and no one could find her. There were murmurs of foul play, but her publishers assured the world that she was fine, just riding out the publicity in seclusion."
Out of the Ashes Page 8
