The Obsession

by Nora Roberts

  She moved faster, heard her breath quicken. Not with exertion, but with an atavistic fear. Something was coming.

  Thunder mumbled overhead, over the rolling, muttering wind. The shimmer of lightning tossed all into an instant of relief, and brought a sick heaviness to her belly.

  She had to run, had to find the light again. Then the shadow stepped from the shadow, a knife in one hand, a rope in the other.

  Time’s up, it said in her father’s voice.

  She tried to scream, and woke with it trapped in her throat, with the weight crushing her chest.

  No air, no air, and she clutched at her own throat as if to fight away the hands that circled it.

  Her heart thudded, sharp, vicious hammer blows that rang in her ears. Red dots swam in front of her eyes.

  Somewhere deep under the weight, the terror, she shouted at herself to breathe. To stop and breathe. But the air wheezed, barely squeezed through her windpipe, only burned her starving lungs.

  Something wet ran over her face. She saw it, felt it, as her own blood. She would die here in the woods of her own creation, in fear of a man she hadn’t seen in seventeen years.

  Then the dog barked, hard and fierce, chased the shadows like rabbits. So she lay panting—breathing, breathing, with the terrible weight easing as the dog lapped at her face.

  He had his front legs braced on the bed. She could see his eyes now, gleaming in the dark, hear his pants along with her own. Struggling to steady, she raised a trembling hand, stroked his head.

  “Okay.” She rolled toward him, comforted, let her eyes close, focused on long, slow breaths. “It’s okay. We’re okay. Just a dream. Bad dream. Bad memories. We’re okay now.”

  Still, she switched on the light—she needed it—brought her knees up to rest her clammy forehead on them.

  “Haven’t had one that bad in a while. Working too hard, that’s all. Just working too hard, thinking too much.”

  Since the dog remained braced on the bed, she shifted to wrap her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his fur until the trembling eased.

  “I thought I didn’t want a dog. I’d say the way you were wandering you must’ve thought you didn’t want a human.” She eased back, rubbed his ears. “And here we are.”

  She picked up the bottle of water she always kept on her nightstand and drank half of it before rising to go into the bathroom and splash cold water on her face.

  Still shy of five, she noted, early for both of them, but she couldn’t risk sleep. Not now.

  She picked up the flashlight—also handy on her nightstand—and went downstairs. She’d gotten into the habit of just letting him out in the morning, but this time she delighted him by going out with him. For a while they just walked, around the house, around the quiet.

  Tag found one of his secreted balls and happily carried it around in his mouth. When she went back in, he watched her make coffee, let the ball drop when she filled his food bowl, picked it up.

  “Let’s take it upstairs.”

  He raced halfway up the back stairs, stopped, looked back to make sure she was coming, and then raced the rest of the way.

  With the dog, with the coffee, she settled down, calm and content again, to wait for sunrise to bloom over her world.

  —

  When Sunday rolled around she thought of a dozen reasons not to go to Jenny’s, and the excuses that would cover it.

  Why would she take one of her two days of quiet and solitude a week and spend it with people? Nice people, certainly, but people who wanted to talk and interact.

  She could drive to the national forest, go hiking—alone. She could work on the yard, or finish painting the first guest room.

  She could sit around and fat-ass all day.

  Really, she’d agreed to go in a weak moment, in the rush of mermaid lamps and bargains. She should . . .

  She’d agreed to go, Naomi reminded herself. What was a couple of hours? If she was going to live here, she needed to be moderately sociable. Hermits and recluses generated gossip and speculation.

  And she’d said she’d bring dessert, and had even shopped for what she needed to make the strawberry torte. It was spring, after all—stubbornly cool, often rainy, but spring.

  She decided to compromise. She’d make the torte, then see how she felt.

  Tag cast suspicious looks at her new stand mixer, as he did the vacuum cleaner. But she loved it, had actually done a little dance when it had arrived two days before.

  Cooking soothed her and gave her a chance to spend quality time in the kitchen with the pretty blue dishes behind the glass, her exceptional knives arranged on their magnetic strip.

  Tag changed his mind about the mixer when she skimmed her finger over the batter left in the bowl and let him have a lick.

  “Damn right, it’s good.” She slid the jelly roll pan into the oven, got to work on the strawberries.

  She put them in one of her blue bowls first, found the right spot, the right light. Ripe red berries in a blue glass bowl—good stock photo. Considering, she added more props—new wineglasses—then put the bowl of berries and the wineglasses on the bamboo tray she’d bought and set it all out on her glider. She took another shot with the pot of pansies in frame.

  She wished she had a throw pillow—hadn’t bought any yet. Maybe she would then set up this shot again with a colorful pillow in the corner of the—

  No, better, a woman’s white silk slip or sexy nightgown, draped over the arm of the glider.

  She didn’t have that either, and had less use for a slip or a sexy nightgown, but—

  The oven timer buzzed.

  “Crap. I haven’t done the berries.”

  She went back to the kitchen work, composing other shots in her head.

  The finished torte looked so beautiful, the making of it so satisfying, she convinced herself she’d be fine for a couple of hours with people she actually liked.

  “And how the hell am I going to get it from here to there? Didn’t think of that.”

  She didn’t have a cake carrier or a torte carrier or any carrier. In the end she lined a shipping box with foil, tented the torte on its white platter, secured it in the box, and, thinking of the dog, taped the lid shut.

  She packed it in the fridge, then went up to dress.

  Next problem, she realized. What did people wear to Sunday dinner?

  Sunday brunch had been the thing in New York. Seth and Harry hosted elaborate Sunday brunches. Dress code had been casual or colorful, or whatever struck your fancy.

  She hated to think about clothes, so she didn’t have any to worry about. Eventually she’d send for what was still in New York—the cocktail dresses, the sharp business wear, the artist black. Meanwhile, she had what she had.

  The reliable black jeans, a white shirt. After a short debate, she went with the Converse high-tops.

  Nobody would care.

  She added a red belt to prove she’d given some thought to the whole deal, and remembered to do her makeup.

  Anytime after four, she remembered, and as it was now four thirty, she should just go. A couple of hours—three, tops—and she’d be home, in her pajamas, back at her computer.

  She loaded the boxed torte onto the floor of the passenger seat and let the dog in the back.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she warned him when he eyed the box.

  Armed with the directions Kevin had given her, she set off.

  She made the turns, took a road she’d yet to explore, and found a little neighborhood built around a skinny inlet. Docks speared out with boats moored. Sunfish, sloops, cabin cruisers. She saw a girl who couldn’t have been more than twelve paddling a butter yellow kayak toward the widening channel with such smooth skill she might have been born in one.

  Naomi pulled up behind Kevin’s truck and gave Xander’s motorcycle a beady-eyed stare. She should’ve known.

  She thought the house charming and decided she should have known that, too, given who lived ther
e. Bold blue trim against weathered cedar shakes, wide windows to bring in the view of the inlet. It stood two stories, with dormers and the enchantment of a widow’s walk.

  She immediately wanted one.

  Flowering bushes, trees, and bedding plants danced in cheerful profusion and made her think of her own scrabbly, neglected yard.

  She’d get to it.

  Ordering herself to put on her Be-Sociable Suit, she got out and circled around for the torte and the dog. Tag all but glued himself to her side as she walked the pavered path to the covered front porch.

  “It’s not the vet, so buck up.”

  Before she could knock, Jenny opened the door—and Tag’s tail wagged in relief and joy at the sight of her.

  “I saw you pull up.” Immediately Jenny moved in to hug, hard. “I’m so glad you came! Everyone’s outside running around. It’s almost like summer today.”

  “I didn’t realize you lived on the water—and you have a widow’s walk. I had instant house envy.”

  “Kevin built it. And half of everything else. Let me take that.” Jenny reached for the box as they stepped into an entranceway cleverly outfitted with a built-in bench and cupboards above, drawers below.

  “Sorry about the delivery system. Dessert’s inside.”

  “You made something? I thought you’d just get something from the bakery. You’re so busy.”

  “I needed to try out my new mixer. I love your house. It’s so you.”

  Colorful, cheerful, the bold blue of the trim echoed in a big sink-into-me sofa loaded with patterned pillows. And those were echoed by boldly patterned chairs.

  Echoed, Naomi thought, but nothing matching. And everything complementing.

  “I like cluttered.”

  “It’s not cluttered. It’s clever and happy.”

  “I really like you. Come on back to the kitchen. I’m dying to see what’s in this box.”

  The kitchen showed Kevin’s hand and Jenny’s style. It followed the open floor plan with a lounge/play area, more comfortable seating, and the man-size flat wall screen.

  Jenny set the box on the long, wide white granite peninsula and tore at the tape.

  Naomi glanced toward the dining area, the painted blue table, the mix and match of green chairs with flowered cushions. “I love the dining room—did you paint the furniture?”

  “I did. I wanted color—and easy maintenance.”

  “It’s happy, again, and I really love the chandelier.”

  Distressed iron strips formed a large ball with clear, round bulbs inside.

  “Me, too, thanks. Kevin found it on one of his job sites—it was some sort of decoration. He brought it home, I fixed it up, he rewired it.”

  “Handy couple—and I’m getting so many ideas.”

  “I’m going to get you a glass of wine in just a minute,” Jenny promised, “but— Oh my God, you made this?”

  “I can’t make a chandelier, but I can make a strawberry torte.”

  Almost reverently, Jenny lifted the torte from the box. “It looks like something out of Martha Stewart. I’d ask for the recipe, but I already know it’s beyond me. And it’s going to put my lasagna to shame.”

  “I love lasagna.”

  “Mostly with two kids and a part-time job, I toss meals together. So Sunday dinner’s the day I actually try to cook, take time with it. Shiraz all right?”

  “Yes, it’s great. I almost talked myself out of coming.”

  Jenny glanced away from the torte she’d set in the center of the prep counter—like a centerpiece. “Why?”

  “I’m easier alone than with people. But I’m glad I came, even if just to see your house.”

  With a humming sound, Jenny poured Naomi a glass of wine, then picked up her own. “I should tell you, then, I’ve decided we’re going to be really good friends, and I’m just relentless.”

  “I haven’t had a really good friend in a long time. I’m out of practice.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” Jenny wrist-flicked that away. “I’ve got the skills. Why don’t I show you my workshop? I’ve got your desk stripped down.”

  They went through a laundry room and straight into a space full of tables, chairs, shelves, workbenches. Though both windows stood open, Naomi caught the scents of paint thinner, linseed oil, polish.

  “I keep picking things up,” Jenny explained. “It’s a sickness. Then I fix them up and talk my boss at Treasures and Trinkets into taking them on consignment. She’ll use pieces for display, and if they don’t sell, I haul them down to this co-op in Shelton. If they don’t sell there, I haul them back. I’m getting some work from people who want a piece redone or fixed up, but most is Dumpster diving, I guess.”

  Naomi gestured to a three-tiered piecrust table. “You didn’t get that out of a Dumpster.”

  “Job site again. The lady sold it to Kevin for ten dollars—it was broken, the top tier snapped clean off. So he fixed it—you can’t even tell it was broken. And I’m—”

  “I want it. When you’ve refinished it, I’ll buy it.”

  Thrown off rhythm, Jenny blinked. “You think fast.”

  “It’s just the sort of thing I want. I’m looking to mix a lot of old pieces, character pieces, through the house. This is perfect.”

  “I should have you over more often. Will you barter for it?”

  “You’ve already got the torte.”

  “I mean, would you trade me a picture for it and the work on the desk? You’ve got this one on your website, and I keep seeing it over our little fireplace in the living room in a white—shabby-chic white—frame. It’s sunset, and oh, the sky is just full of red and gold and going to indigo blue, and the trees are reflected on the water. And there’s a white boat—sailboat—in the sound. It makes me think that’s what heaven could be. Sailing in a white boat on the water into the red and golds.”

  “I know the one you mean, but it doesn’t seem fair—two pieces for one.”

  “I know what your work goes for. And I know what mine goes for. I’m getting the better deal.”

  “Depends on where you’re standing. Done—but I frame it. Tell me what size you want.”

  Jenny pointed toward a frame—shabby-chic white.

  “About twenty-four by eighteen. I’ll take the frame with me.”

  “Oh boy! And what I really wanted you to see was that bench. It just seems right for your bedroom deck.”

  Following the direction, Naomi stepped around a couple of projects in progress and saw the high-backed wire bench, done in a distressed forest green.

  “No pressure,” Jenny said quickly. “If you don’t like it—”

  “I do. And it would work there. Better, if I ever get the grounds cleared and decently landscaped, it would be wonderful as a garden seat, wouldn’t it?”

  “In a shady nook,” Jenny imagined. “Or in the sun, by a weeping cherry.”

  “Absolutely. And it would make pretty seating on the bedroom deck in the meantime. Sold.”

  “Will you trade me the water lily print for it?”

  “You make it easy,” Naomi agreed.

  “I have this frame—distressed silver—and I can just see that print in it, on my bedroom wall. It’s fun helping decorate each other’s houses.”

  “Let’s see the frame.”

  “Ah, it’s over . . . there.”

  With Jenny, Naomi started toward it, then stopped. “Oh! My desk.”

  At her tone, Tag stopped exploring and trotted over. Naomi all but cooed as she ran her hand over the smooth wood. “I know it’s just stripped and sanded, but it’s already beautiful. Look at the