Читать книгу The Awakening - Amanda Stevens - Страница 15

Ten

I managed a few more hours of sleep and arose early in a resolved if not entirely upbeat mood. A cool gray light seeped into the bedroom, but the warm edge of sunrise glowed just above the horizon. While I dressed, Angus roused and padded off down the hallway to wait patiently at the back door. After a quick look out the front window to make sure the black car had moved on, I turned off the security system and followed him outside.

Plopping down on the steps to tie my walking shoes, I let my thoughts amble while he went about his morning routine. Naturally, my mind went back to the dream and to Mama and Aunt Lynrose sitting beside that open grave in their rockers. Time and my subconscious may have embellished the dialogue, but I had no doubt I’d overheard a similar conversation sometime in the distant past. The memory had been pushed to the back of my mind until recent events had called it forth. But why? I still couldn’t imagine how my mother and aunt were connected to Woodbine Cemetery any more than I understood Devlin’s warning that I didn’t belong in the dead world. And he did?

The way he had turned away in resignation to walk back into the mausoleum had chilled me most of all, but maybe I was making too much of that scene. Not every element in a dream had to have meaning. Maybe some of the images were nothing more than fragmented memories and disjointed worries knitted together into something indecipherable.

I called Angus back inside and poured nuggets in his bowl. I topped off his water before heading out on my morning walk. The air was cool, but I set a brisk pace and soon warmed up from the exertion. Traffic was still sparse and I met only a handful of early-bird pedestrians. As I strode along the cracked sidewalks, I kept a vigilant eye, but if the black car tailed me, the driver was skilled enough to avoid detection.

Turning left on Broad Street, I sailed past banks and law offices housed in centuries-old buildings as I headed toward the water. The pastel houses along Rainbow Row glowed softly in the morning light. I crossed the street to the Battery, telling myself to keep moving, to avert my eyes when I passed the Devlin mansion, but that was asking too much. I slowed my steps as my gaze darted across East Bay. The sun was just rising over the harbor and the light reflecting off the windows blinded me.

Shielding my eyes, I scanned the elegant facade, searching the balcony where I had seen Devlin. He wasn’t outside today. No one was about. The family slept on while I stood watching their house.

Abruptly, I turned and made my way to the bottom of the peninsula, crossing the street once again to White Point Garden. No one was about in the park, either, and I was glad to have the space to myself. I followed a trail past the gazebo and canons to a remote spot where I often came to think.

The camellia blossoms hung heavy with dew, and the smell of brine drifted on the sea breeze, which ruffled my hair. It was one of those clean, clear mornings when Charleston shimmered like a diamond. I headed for my usual bench only to find it occupied. I started to move on, then stopped dead as a quiver went through me.

The man’s head was turned so that I could only see his profile, but I recognized the jawline, the rigid posture, the gleaming silver hair—not a strand out of place. Even at so early an hour, Jonathan Devlin was formally turned out in a three-piece suit and wingtips. A gold watch fob hung from his vest and a precisely folded pocket square adorned his coat. He could have been on his way to a funeral, so somber his attire.

I hadn’t made a sound. I was certain of that. But before I could make my escape, he turned and pinned me with a gaze every bit as dark and intense as his grandson’s. I was awestruck by that glare. It was as if his eyes had the power to hold me in suspended animation.

In that frozen moment, I suddenly became acutely aware of my own apparel—walking shoes, leggings and a faded hoodie. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but the wind and the exertion of my walk had loosened damp tendrils. I wore no makeup or perfume and my nails were clipped short so that I could more easily scrub away the graveyard dirt. A less appealing presentation I could hardly imagine, but why should I be so concerned about my appearance? Jonathan Devlin was nothing to me. I had no need to impress.

Even so, I couldn’t dispel the echo of my aunt Lynrose’s censure. You must always wear gloves when you work, Amelia. On that there can be no compromise. A woman’s hands never lie.

Neither of us spoke for the longest time, which only prolonged the awkward encounter. Finally, I cleared my throat and shrugged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“It’s a public park. I don’t own this bench.” He had Devlin’s drawl, I noted. That cultured cadence rarely heard these days and only ever south of Broad Street.

I tried to suppress a shiver as I inched back a step. “That’s true, but you were here first. I can find another bench.”

“No, don’t run away, young lady.” His voice softened though not without effort, I wagered. He rose from the bench to face me.

He was tall, with the trim physique and resolute demeanor of a man who cut himself and those around him very little slack. I wondered what it must have been like for Devlin, a rebellious teen losing his parents so suddenly and forced to live with a man who wore a three-piece suit and polished wingtips for an early-morning stroll in the park. But then, I didn’t delude myself into thinking that this was a coincidental meeting. Not after the episode last night in front of my house.

“I may have beaten you to the punch this time,” Jonathan Devlin allowed. “But you come here often enough that I imagine you think of this as your place.” He gave a little wave as if to encompass our surroundings.

I stared back at him, trying not to show my nerves. “How would you know how often I come here? Or that I come here at all, for that matter.”

“There is very little I don’t know about you, Miss Gray.”

Apprehension quickened my breath. “That sounds ominous.”

“Yet you’re still here.” The light slanting down through the leaves caught him in such a way as to magnify the lines and creases in his face and the slight sag of his jowls. Despite his military posture and fitness, I detected a slight quake in his voice, a chink in his armor that he undoubtedly abhorred. A man such as he would cling to his vigor until his dying breath.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, his dark gaze taking my measure.