Читать книгу Who Is Deborah? - Elise Title, Elise Title - Страница 8

I must have looked a sight as I fled the general store, so in embarrassment, I turned my face away from Greg as I got into his sports car. Meanwhile, snippets of those two women’s conversation kept echoing in my mind. He must be a little weird himself…Those eyes…It’s no wonder that wife of his ran away….

Ran away? But I didn’t run away. Greg had told me I’d gone on a shopping trip. He’d made it sound so…mundane. Why would he lie to me? Why?

I couldn’t still my trembling. Had he lied? And if he’d lied about that, why not about other things?

No, no, I told myself, refusing to give in to my paranoia. What did those two silly gossips know? Greg was Nick’s friend. My friend. Why would he lie to me?

“Don’t tell me you couldn’t find what you needed in Gus’s,” Greg said, his attention on the traffic as he pulled out of the parking area and turned left on Main Street.

“What?” I dabbed at the perspiration on my brow. “Gus’s?”

“Gus used to own the convenience store. Sold it about fifteen years ago, but all the locals still call it Gus’s.”

“Does…Nick?”

“Nick’s probably the only one in Sinclair who doesn’t know what they call the store. He’s oblivious to such mundane tidbits.”

“Is he?”

“When you’re the local celebrity, as Nick is, you can’t help but cause a bit of a stir every time you come into town. Nick’s not the type who likes a fuss being made over him. And he hates all the gossip—”

“Gossip?” I jumped on the word.

Greg grinned. “Sure, there’s always gossip. It goes with the territory. Nick understands that. He tries to act like he’s impervious to it, but I know him well enough to know it bugs him.”

“What…kind of gossip?” I could hear the tremor in my voice, but I hoped Greg wouldn’t pick it up.

“Oh, everything from Nick being a sorcerer to a vampire. For a while there was a rumor floating around town that he was a direct descendant of Dr. Frankenstein.”

He chuckled. “And then there was the one that he kept a wild tiger as a pet and fed it live rats. I guess when you’re gossiping about a horror writer, it’s easy to imagine all sorts of ghoulish nonsense. And I suppose Nick’s appearance and demeanor only encourage it. All of which delights his publishers because it translates into more book sales. They love the mystique that swirls around Nick. I mean, just think if the famous horror novelist, Nicholas Steele, looked like a dreary accountant.”

“What about…me? Was there…gossip about me, as well?”

I’m not sure if it was the question itself or something in my voice that made him slow the car to a stop and look over at me with concern. “Deborah, what is it? You’re white as a ghost. Are you having second thoughts?”

A hoarse laugh escaped my lips. “Second, third and fourth.”

He gave me a broad, easy smile. “It’s only natural. I suppose it must feel to you something like one of those arranged marriages with a total stranger.”

“Something very much like that.”

“Does it help any to tell you that there must be thousands of women out there who’d give anything to be in your shoes?”

My glance skipped down to my shoes—a pair of worn, scuffed, white pumps. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to be in these shoes.”

Greg laughed. “They aren’t your usual style, I’ll admit that. If we’d thought about it earlier, we could have stopped along the way. There are a couple of dress shops in Sinclair, but the whole street closes down by five.”

“That’s all right.” I was feeling uncomfortable enough in “my” outfit—well, as much mine as anything I possessed.

“What do you think of that place across the street? It’s pure Greek Revival. On a small scale, of course.” He pointed to an attractive whitewashed cottage. My mind wasn’t on town architecture and I gave it the barest of nods, muttering a brief pleasantry about its cheerful appearance.

“It’s my home away from home. I’m settling in for the whole summer, so if you get lonely or just want to drop by when you’re in town…” As he spoke, he pulled out onto the road again and headed north of the town.

“Was I often lonely in…the past?”

“When Nick’s working on a book, he pretty much withdraws from humanity for whole spurts of time. If Lillian didn’t bring him in his meals, he’d probably waste away to nothing and never even notice.”

“Why Lillian?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why didn’t…I bring him in his meals?”

Greg shrugged. “You probably did sometimes. It’s just that Lillian does all the cooking and she has a tendency to be a bit of a mother hen around Nick.”

“Is she much older than him?” And then I realized I didn’t even know how old this husband of mine was. I wasn’t even sure how old I was, for that matter. I asked Greg.

“Nick’s thirty-seven and I recall him once mentioning that Lillian was a couple of years younger than him. You’d never know it to look at her. When I first met her I thought she was his spinster aunt. Maybe forty-five, even fifty.”

“And me?”

“Poor Deb. It just hit me how totally devastating it must be for you to have no memory whatsoever. Not even to know how old you are. It’s really tragic.”

I was feeling pretty tragic by then, and must have looked it because he quickly donned an upbeat tone. “You turned twenty-six on April seventeenth. But you don’t look a day over twenty-five.”

“If you want to win my trust, Greg, you mustn’t tell such bald-faced lies.”

I was surprised to see hurt cross his features. “I thought I had won your trust, Deborah. A long time ago. But, of course, I see that I have to begin all over again. Rest assured, I will.”

There was no smile on his face now, and a deep crease stretched across his brow.

I felt guilty for doubting him and for making that snippy remark. He didn’t deserve it. I might not remember anything of our past relationship, but I could sense his genuine caring.

With a cloudless blue sky overhead, the Miata began climbing a narrow winding mountain road about a mile past Greg’s cottage. This was the way to Raven’s Cove. To Nicholas Steele. I was feeling better about Greg by then, but I was a complete nervous wreck about my imminent arrival “home.”

Greg made small talk about the surrounding landscape as we ascended the mountain. I knew it was an effort on his part to get my mind off what lay ahead, but that was all I could think about. In the middle of his waxing poetic about the beauty and the joys of country life, I abruptly cut him off.

“Has he always written horror stories?”

Greg had to smile. “You weren’t listening to a word I said, were you?”

“Not a word,” I admitted sheepishly.

“Okay, you want more dope on Nick. Sure, I can understand that. Let’s see. Did he always write horror stories? I’m not sure. The horror genre is certainly where Nicholas made his name. He did confess to me on a couple of occasions that he’d like to try his hand at something else, something altogether different, but…it’s difficult. His fans would be terribly disappointed if they didn’t get their Nicholas Steele ‘horror’ fix each year.”

The voices of the two women in Gus’s came to mind.

“Was I a fan?”

“Sure, you were. Oh, I don’t know that you read all his books, but what I’m saying is…you supported him.”

“And he, in turn, supported me?”

Greg gave me a teasing, lopsided smile. “In the style to which any woman would love to be accustomed.”

I flushed. “I didn’t mean that. I meant…my work. My painting.”

To avoid answering my question, Greg turned all of his attention to driving carefully on the narrow, curving road. I realized then that he’d done that once before, when he’d failed to answer my question about whether there had been any gossip about me. It’s no wonder she ran off like she did. Had that been pure rumor? Had an innocent shopping jaunt and my disappearance gotten distorted into something hinting of menace and treachery?

“You’re going to be blown away when you see Raven’s Cove. It’s really something.” He gave me a warm smile. “I suppose it will be like seeing it for the first time all over again.”

“Was I…‘blown away’…when I saw it before for the first time?”

Greg laughed. “I’m the wrong one to ask about your first impressions of the place. You’ll have to ask Nick that question. When the infatuated groom brought you home, he didn’t want anyone else around.”

Infatuated. I experienced a fluttery sensation. “Even his cousin?” I asked innocently.

“Lillian? Oh, she doesn’t count. She’s part of the woodwork up in Raven’s Cove.”

I doubted Lillian, or anyone for that matter, would appreciate such an unflattering, even callous description. I was a little disappointed in Greg for saying it, but then I told myself no one was perfect and I was probably being hypersensitive. Was it any wonder? We were nearing the top of the mountain, nearing the awesome Raven’s Cove. Despite Greg’s enthusiasm about the place, I couldn’t help imagining a dark, foreboding mansion that would come looming out of the clouds like a portentous apparition, like something from one of Nick’s own horror novels.

I looked out at the lush, wild terrain, suddenly aware that in the whole drive up the mountain I hadn’t spotted a single other home or building of any sort.

“Doesn’t anyone else live on the mountain?” I asked Greg.

“Not very likely. Nick owns the whole kit and caboodle. Bought it so he could protect his privacy.”

He gave me a reassuring look. “Don’t worry. You won’t be completely alone. I drop in at Raven’s Cove a lot.” He smiled at me. “You’ll probably get to thinking I’m a pest.”

“No I won’t,” I assured him so quickly that I flushed. “I mean—I think you’re…very nice.” My amendment, I was sure, only served to deepen the pinkness in my cheeks, but then I spotted something reflected in Greg’s features that made me wonder if I’d always thought Greg nice. Had there been times when I had considered him a pest? Or, were there times when I’d felt he was too nice? Those disturbing thoughts led me back again to the nature of my relationship with my husband.

“Greg, were we—Nick and I—happily married?”

When he didn’t reply right away, my heart started to race. “Tell me. You…you must,” I said in a shaky voice.

“Deborah, listen to me.”

Listen? I was hanging on his every word.

“I pride myself on being an expert observer of people,” he went on. “That goes with being a private investigator. And I’m very successful at my work.”

I didn’t question that. He’d found me, hadn’t he?

He pulled the car to a stop and turned to face me. “There isn’t a doubt in my mind that you have always been in love with Nick. From the first moment I saw you two together to that last day when you took off, you loved him. Trust me on that.”

I stared at him. “It wasn’t just a shopping trip, was it?”

Greg closed his eyes and then opened them again slowly. “You got a little miffed at him. Even the happiest of married couples have their spats. You and Nick were no exception.”

“What did we fight about?”

“I thought if I told you that you’d left in a huff that day, you wouldn’t…come back. And I felt I owed it to Nick and to you to bring the two of you back together. When…When your memory comes back, Deborah, I know the two of you will smooth things out.”

“What things?” I asked stiffly.

He rubbed his eyes. “You sometimes got on Nick’s case about not…paying you enough attention. I told you when he’s working on a book, he pretty much closes himself off from the outside world. You resented it at times. It was only natural. And you were young, wanted to have fun, go places. Sometime you got lonely, bored, and craved a little more attention from Nick. Anyway, you’d planned this sailing trip. Just you and Nick. A kind of second honeymoon, I guess. And then Nick told you at the last minute that he had to cancel because of some revisions he felt he needed to do on his book. You got pissed—”

“You were there?”

He looked away. “For part of the row. I left before you did.” When he turned back to me, there was a pained expression on his face. “Maybe if I’d stuck around I could have…calmed you down. Knowing Nick, the angrier you got, the more…restrained he got. You probably ended up good and frustrated—”

“You’re telling me I walked out on Nick?”

“It wasn’t like that, really. We both knew you’d be back, probably with a pile of new clothes and a new hairstyle. If nothing had…happened to you.”

“And how did Nick feel about all this?”

Greg’s lips compressed. “Nick isn’t one for sharing his feelings. Or showing them, for that matter. If you ask me, I think he’s actually very vulnerable and kind of puts up a wall to protect himself. Not that I claim to be Freud or anything.”

“What did he say when you told him you’d found me? That you were bringing me…home?” The word home nearly stuck in my throat.

Greg sighed. “He said he’d wait supper for you.”

We stared at each other in silence. It was Greg who broke it. “Give him a chance, Deborah. Give yourself a chance. And know one thing for certain. I’ll always be there for you. You knew that in the past. And I want you to know it again now.”

But I didn’t know what I knew in the past—about Greg, about Nick, about anything. And I was equally, if not more so, in the dark about the present. As for the future—it was impossible to even consider.

The house was nothing like I’d conjured up in my mind. It wasn’t the dark, ominous, Victorian-style mansion I’d fantasized. Raven’s Cove, nestled into the crest of the mountain like it had been carved into the granite, was a wonder of modern architectural design. All glass and cedar, the house was built on several levels jutting down the cliffside, each level having access through sliding-glass doors to its own landscaped terrace. While it inspired no memories for me, I couldn’t help but be captured by the visual if stark beauty of the place. My spirits managed to lift a bit. Maybe Nick would even greet me with open arms—the prodigal wife returned; the girl of his dreams. Maybe his love would be the key to unlocking my memory. Now I was the one sounding like I’d stepped out of a romance novel. How naive and innocent I was, then. Or, maybe it was just desperation. Desperation to belong, to feel wanted, to have a real home, to be loved and cherished.

A gravel path swung around to the main entrance of the house with its oversize double front doors fitted with smoky etched glass around cedar frames. The right door opened just as Greg pulled the car to a stop.

“Ah, the welcome committee,” Greg muttered dryly.

My gaze fell on a tall, somber, middle-aged woman who stepped over the threshold, her face expressionless—except for her eyes. Even from this distance, I could recognize a look of undisguised reproach and wariness evident in her dark, lackluster eyes.

Greg appeared at my side of the car, opening the door and temporarily obscuring my view of the woman I presumed to be Nick’s cousin, Lillian. Greg reached out for my hand to assist me in getting out, then, probably remembering my previous distressing reaction to physical contact, thought better of it, and let his hand drop. He couldn’t know this, but for once, I’d have welcomed his touch. I felt in great need of someone to hold on to just then; someone who was no longer a complete stranger to me at least, someone who didn’t regard me with such overt displeasure as the woman at the door.

After a moment’s hesitation, I alighted from the car without assistance, while Greg stepped around to the trunk to retrieve my small case—the sum total of my possessions. I felt very much like a sorry waif as I nervously ascended the fan-shaped slate steps to the front door under the watchful eye of the solemn, spare-figured, tight-lipped Lillian. Not even a grudging smile of greeting. A welcoming committee, indeed! Why, the woman went so far as to step back inside the house before I even reached the door! And without saying so much as a word.

As we followed Lillian inside, I glanced anxiously over at Greg, but he merely presented me with another of his lopsided smiles and an encouraging wink that did little to buoy my plummeting spirits.

“Well, here we are, home at last,” Greg said cheerily to Lillian, ignoring the woman’s dour expression.

“He’s in the den. Working,” Lillian responded stiffly, her voice cold and dismissive.

“Then I’ll just go and rouse him from his ‘work,”’ Greg replied, undaunted.

Panicked to see my one ally take off, I nearly ran after him. But that would have meant running right into Nick—looking like a scared rabbit, no doubt. Better to calm down a bit and wait for him to come to me.

Not that it was easy to calm down, left alone with the austere and silent Lillian. I considered easing the tension by saying something, but was at a complete loss. Nor was Nick’s cousin any help. Lillian merely stood there in the vast marble-floored hallway giving me a cold, piercing look, not uttering a word, her proprietary manner making itself markedly clear. It was as though the woman was going out of her way to intimidate me—at which she was succeeding nicely.

The question was, why? Did I look so different that she was suspicious of whether I truly was Deborah? Did she think Greg had made a mistake? Or was Lillian giving me this cold reception because she resented my return? Had the two of us not gotten along in the past? If so, my bet was it was a case of mutual dislike. And then the thought struck me: Had Lillian been jealous of me? Was Nick more than just a cousin to her? Had she liked having him all to herself again these past two months? Pampering him? Bringing him his meals? Never making demands on his time, I surmised. Not the way I had.

I felt a flash of irritation. At least the woman could have the decency to speak her mind. I was even building up the courage to confront her. Anything seemed better than this tense, silent face-off. But, as if Lillian suspected I was about to say something, her lips curved slightly in what could hardly be called a smile, and, still without a word, she abruptly turned and took off down the hall, disappearing through a door at the far right.

Left alone, I fought to regain my composure before my next and very likely even more traumatic encounter ensued. While I waited for the arrival of “my husband,” I regarded the large, sparsely decorated sunken living room to my right. The far wall was all window and sliding-glass doors, affording a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains and the sky, now streaked with brilliant slashes of red, purple and orange as the sun sank lower toward the horizon.

Pulling my gaze from the breathtaking vista beyond the windows, I focused my attention on the room itself. While there were few furnishings, each item was tastefully placed and reflected an expensive and refined taste. There was nothing large, cumbersome or gloomy here. The eclectic mix of modern pieces and antiques worked beautifully. A few modern paintings hung on the white walls. I recognized the artists, all quite celebrated. There was nothing here painted by an amateur; nothing of Deborah’s—mine—in sight.

Despite the attractiveness of the room, it had the same starkness as the exterior of the house. It was all too meticulous. All too perfect. And there was an awful heaviness in the air, producing a chill that had nothing to do with temperature, but with something indefinable, something cloying and…sinister.

Paranoia rearing its ugly head again, I chided myself. I was getting carried away, letting some silly gossip I’d overheard in town distort my perspective, color my feelings. Color them ruby red. The blood-red shade flashed unbidden into my mind.

I was already trembling badly when I heard a door open behind me. Then footsteps on the cold, ungiving marble. Whirling around, I came face-to-face with him at last. The celebrated author of horror novels.

I saw now that the two customers back at the general store had been right about Nicholas Steele. He was everything they had said—and more. The inky blue-black eyes that shone with an inner, mysterious glow, the striking, angular features, the arrogance and pride of his tall, stately carriage, the glistening black hair pulled back from his face, and held by a leather band at his nape. “Medieval,” one of the women had described him. Yes, I thought. It was as if this man were somehow from a darker, more dangerous, perhaps more reckless period of history.

With an air of desperation, I looked past him, hoping to see Greg. But the private investigator had remained inside the den. His own decision? Or Nick’s? Whichever, it was clear to me that this was to be a private meeting between the two of us. A happy reunion? A callous dismissal? I had no idea. Those dark, mesmerizing eyes of his gave nothing away. He stood now no more than three feet from me. Except for the description of him I’d overheard in the shop, I in no way recognized this man who was supposedly my husband. And there was absolutely nothing in his look that indicated recognition of me as his wife.

He continued his silent survey, much as his cousin Lillian had done a few minutes earlier. But with Lillian, I had felt a mixture of intimidation, discomfort and irritation. My feelings were altogether different now. It was as if I were being tossed pell-mell into white-water rapids, rushing precariously closer to a waterfall. I could even hear the roar of the water in my ears, feel the danger engulfing me. But I felt helpless to stop my course—a course I had so impulsively set in motion the moment I’d agreed to come here to Raven’s Cove and Nicholas Steele. Why, oh, why, hadn’t I listened to Dr. Royce, followed his advice? If I’d seen Nicholas Steele at the hospital, looking at me the way he was looking at me now—silent, appraising, utterly unsettling—would I ever have come here? I really don’t know. Even today, it’s a question I can’t answer for certain.

But one thing I knew then: I longed to look away, run away, escape this man, this cloying house, but I was so transfixed by his riveting, mesmerizing scrutiny of me that I could do nothing but remain frozen in place.

Well, not quite frozen. I began to sway. In a daze, I saw him reach out toward me. An instant later, his large hand rested on my shoulder. His touch—it was like fire and ice all at once. I opened my mouth to speak, to cry out, but then his face began to multiply before my eyes; worse still, to spin. Spinning and spinning, faster and faster. And then, mercifully, blackness descended as I fainted dead away.