spree with Lily and Bea. She filled the glass at the little sink on the island in the middle of the kitchen, and stood there drinking the Alka-Seltzer and then closed her eyes.
Yes, better. Probably purely psychological, but better.
“Good. I’m glad you feel better.”
“Thank you,” she said, thinking what a lovely voice, so soft and with a touch of a Scottish accent, wasn’t it? A beautiful melodious voice.
She opened her eyes, and with a violent start, stumbled backwards against the door of the refrigerator.
He was standing on the other side of the counter. About three feet away. His whisper had been raw, heartfelt. But the expression on his face was a little colder, and entirely human. Slightly hurt perhaps, but not imploring as it had been that night in Tiburon. No, not that at all.
This had to be a real man. It was a joke of some kind. This was a real man. A man standing here in the kitchen, staring at her, a tall, brown-haired man with large dark eyes, and a beautifully shaped sensuous mouth.
The light through the French doors clearly revealed his shirt, and the rawhide vest he wore. Old, old clothing, clothing made with hand stitches and uneven seams, and big full sleeves.
“Well? Where is your will to destroy me, beautiful one?” he whispered, in the same low, vibrant, and heartbroken voice. “Where is your power to drive me back into hell?”
She was shaking uncontrollably. The glass slipped out of her wet fingers and struck the floor with a dull noise and rolled to one side. She gave a deep, ragged sigh, and kept her eyes focused upon him. The reasoning part of her observed that he was tall, perhaps over six feet, that he had heavily muscled arms and powerful hands. That his face was perfect in its proportions, and that his hair was softly mussed, as if by a wind. Not that delicate androgynous gentleman she’d seen on the deck, no.
“The better to love you, Rowan!” he whispered. “What shape would you have me take? He is not perfect, Rowan, he is human but not perfect. No.”
For a moment her fear was so great that she felt a tight squeezing inside of her as if she were going to die. Moving against it, defiant and enraged, she came forward, legs trembling, and reached out across the counter, and touched his cheek.
Roughened, like Michael’s. And the lips silky. God! Once again, she stumbled backwards, paralyzed, and unable to move or speak. Tremors moved through her limbs.
“You fear me, Rowan?” he said, lips barely moving as she focused on them. “Why? Leave your friend, Aaron, alone, you commanded me, and I did as you commanded, did I not?”
“What do you want?”
“Ah, that would be a very long time in the telling,” he answered, the Scottish accent thickened. “And he waits for you, your lover, and your husband, on this your wedding night. And he grows anxious that you do not come.”
The face softened, torn suddenly with pain. How could an illusion be this vital?
“Go, Rowan, go back to him,” he said sadly, “and if you tell him I am here, you will make him more miserable than even you know. And I shall hide from you again, and the fear and the suspicion will eat at him, and I will come only when I want to come.”
“All right. I won’t tell him,” she whispered. “But don’t you harm him. Don’t you bring the slightest fear or worry to him. And the other tricks, stop them! Don’t plague him with tricks! Or I swear to you, I will never never speak to you. And I will drive you away.”
The beautiful face looked tragic, and the brown eyes grew soft and infinitely sad.
“And Aaron, you’re never to harm Aaron. Never. Never to harm anyone, do you hear me?”
“As you say, Rowan,” he said, the words flowing like music, full of sorrow and quiet strength. “What is there in all the world for me, but pleasing Rowan? Come to me when he sleeps. Tonight, tomorrow, come when you will. There is no time for me. I am here when you say my name. But keep faith with me, Rowan. Come alone to me, and in secret. Or I will not answer. I love you, my beautiful Rowan. But I have a will. I do.”
The figure suddenly shimmered as if a sourceless light had struck it; it brightened and a thousand tiny details of it were suddenly visible. Then it became transparent, and a gust of warm air struck her, frightening her, and then leaving her alone in the darkness, with nothing there.
She put her hand to her mouth. The nausea came again. She stood waiting it out, shivering, and on the verge of screaming, when she heard Michael’s soft but unmistakable tread coming through the pantry and into the kitchen. She forced herself to open her eyes.
He had slipped into his jeans, and his chest and his feet were bare.
“What’s wrong, honey?” he whispered. He saw the glass gleaming in the dark; against the bottom of the refrigerator. He bent down, past her, and picked it up and put it in the sink. “Rowan, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Michael,” she said thickly, trying to control the trembling, the tears springing to her eyes. “I’m sick, just a little sick. It happened this morning, and this afternoon and yesterday too actually. I don’t know what it is. It was the cigarette just now. I’ll be OK, Michael, honestly. I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t know what it is?” he asked her.
“No, I just … I guess it’s … cigarettes never did that to me before.… ”
“Dr. Mayfair,” he said. “You sure you don’t know?”
She felt his hands on her shoulders. She felt his hair brush her cheek gently as he bent to kiss the tops of her breasts. She started to cry, her hands clasping his head, feeling the silkiness of his hair.
“Dr. Mayfair,” he said. “Even I know what it is.”
“What are you talking about?” she whispered. “I just need to sleep, to go upstairs.”
“You’re pregnant, honey. Go look at yourself in the mirror.” And very gently he touched her breasts again, and she herself felt the plumpness, the slight soreness, and she knew, knew absolutely from all the other little unnoticed signs, that he was right. Absolutely right.
She dissolved into tears. She let him pick her up and tumble her against him, and carry her slowly through the house. Her body ached from the tension of the awful moments in the kitchen, and her sobs were coming dry and painfully from her throat. She didn’t think it was possible for him to carry her up that long stairway, but he did it, and she let him do it, crying against his chest, her fingers tight around his neck.
He set her down on the bed, and kissed her. In a daze she watched him blow out the candles, and come back to her.
“I love you so much, Rowan,” he said. He was crying too. “I love you so much. I’ve never been so happy … it comes in waves, and each time I think it’s the pinnacle, and then it comes again. And this of all nights to know … God, what a wedding gift, Rowan. What did I ever do to deserve this happiness, I wish I knew.”
“I love you, too, my darling. Yes … so happy.” As he climbed under the covers, she turned away, tucking herself against him, and feeling his knees draw up under hers. She cried against the pillow, taking his hand and folding it over her breasts.
“Everything is so perfect,” he whispered.
“Nothing to spoil it,” she whispered, “not a single thing.”
Forty-one
SHE WOKE BEFORE he did. After the first round of nausea, she packed the suitcases quickly, with all the prefolded bundles of clothes. Then she went downstairs into the kitchen.
Everything clean and quiet in the sunlight. No sign of what had taken place last night. And the pool sparkling out there beyond the screened porch. And the sun filtering down softly through the screens onto the white wicker furniture.
She examined the counter. She examined the floor. She could detect nothing. Then, filled with revulsion and anger, she made the coffee as quickly as she could, so as to get out of the room, and she brought it up to Michael.
He was just opening his eyes.
“Let’s take off now,” she said.
