Читать книгу Forgotten Vows - Modean Moon - Страница 9

An hour’s hard drive north and east of El Paso, Edward William Renberg Carlton IV pulled his rented Jeep to the side of the road and stepped out, twisting and stretching to ease his cramped muscles and the knot of tension that had been tightening since the night before, when Simms had brought him the photograph.

His emotions had run the gamut the last six months— from fear to shock to anger. Now his heart and soul were desolate—as desolate as the harsh scrub-desert countryside around him, as desolate as they had been before a wisp of a girl had shown him color and shadings and laughter and, he’d thought, love. Desolate. Except for the knot of tension still tightening.

Edward reached into the Jeep and lifted the picture from its folder. She wasn’t looking at the camera. In fact, she seemed to be unaware of it as she smiled wistfully at someone out of range of the camera’s eye. She’d cut her magnificent hair. Now only a short cap of curls framed her delicate face. She’d shed weight she didn’t need to lose, honed down, and lost the last vestiges of youthful softness.

“Damn it!” he muttered, forcing his fist to relax before he crushed the photograph. “Why?”

But neither the prairie dogs, the coyotes, the hawks nor the scruffy cactus answered him.

He stopped again much later, just outside the town of Avalon, his destination. A mile after leaving the highway, on a curve overlooking the naturally terraced mountainside, he pulled to the verge and looked through a break in the trees—towering pines, majestic oak, hickories and walnuts—at a town that seemed out of someone’s fantasy. He’d expected rural Southwest, perhaps even mountainous West, not a turn-of-the-century village. Not abundant, manicured and carefully planted and tended green.

He shook his head once, as though to clear it, and heard a bell, a church bell, tolling the hour. From where he’d stopped, he could see at least three churches—white frame, red brick, and one gray stone.

Leave it to Jennie to find a place like this. He felt his pain rising to choke him and fought it the only way he knew how, with his anger. Damn it! Damn her! Her whole life had been an illusion. Why should her hiding place be any different? And damn him for giving her the power to hurt him.

If he’d gone to the apartment he kept in the city last night instead of lingering at the office, Simms wouldn’t have found him to show him the picture that had ripped open wounds he’d convinced himself had begun to heal. If Madeline, his administrative assistant, had had her way, if he hadn’t heard her arguing in his outer office, Simms wouldn’t have been allowed in to show him the picture. Madeline was only trying to protect him, as she had for years. She couldn’t understand why he had to know, had to confront, had to ask, “Why?”

The eight-by-ten black-and-white photo and accompanying text had been sent to Simms, the city editor of San Francisco’s largest newspaper, with a polite inquiry as to whether it would rate a small feature, and, if not, would Mr. Simms please refer the material to the advertising department for a paid ad. The letter was signed by Wilbur Winthrop, vicar of St. Alban’s Church, Avalon, New Mexico, and said simply, “Do you know this woman?” The vicar had no way of knowing the Carlton family had owned that newspaper for four generations. Or had he?

Edward had taken the picture from Madeline and the letter from Simms before Madeline had a chance to see it. He’d left his office, taking Simms with him long enough to swear him to secrecy about the photo and the contact’s name and address, then left the building. Later, after Madeline had left no fewer than five messages on his answering machine, and had come to his apartment but had not gotten past the new security guard, he’d left that building, too. And finally, he’d left the city.

There was a small airport just outside of Avalon. Edward had noticed that while readying to leave. But he’d flown his executive jet into El Paso instead, because he hadn’t been sure of the availability of a rental car, hadn’t been sure he wanted to announce his presence in Avalon so blatantly and hadn’t been sure he wanted anyone in his offices to know where he’d gone or the folly that had brought him here. In the anonymous Jeep, he could look over the situation and leave, if he wanted, without anyone’s—without Jennie’s—ever knowing he’d been here; leave—without seeing her.

If she’s here.

For the first time since seeing the photograph, his mind began to clear. Why would the vicar place an ad like that if she were still here? Had she used the vicar, too? The woman he’d thought he’d known wouldn’t have—couldn’t have. But then, the woman he’d thought he’d known wouldn’t have disappeared with a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of bonds from his safe and after finding them nonnegotiable, she wouldn’t have ripped the stones from the rings he’d given her, returning to him only the mangled settings.

The gray stone church was St. Alban’s. Ivy grew up the wall overlooking a well-tended cemetery on the church grounds. New plantings of spring flowers bordered the sidewalks leading to the red double doors of the graceful building. The vicarage sat to one side and slightly back from the road. Like the church, the cottage was a small stone structure that needed only a thatched roof to complete the fairy-tale setting.

Edward stood on the front steps, folder in hand, and sounded the door knocker before he had time to question again the wisdom of his being there. The door opened quickly, and he found himself facing a pleasant-looking older woman.

“Good afternoon,” she said, smiling. “May I help you?” Her voice was pleasant, too, well modulated, as gracious as her surroundings, and bearing a faint trace of an English accent. In spite of the gravity of the situation, Edward felt an answering smile begging to be set free, and wondered, not for the first time since seeing the village, if magically he had been transported to some alternate reality.

“I’d like to speak with Reverend Winthrop, please,” he said.

Not by a flicker of a lash did the woman reveal any curiosity. “Certainly,” she said, opening the door wider and stepping back. “Won’t you come in? My husband is in his study. If you’ll wait in the front parlor—” she gestured to a room opening off the foyer “—I’ll tell him you’re here.”

She hadn’t even asked his name, he mused as he walked into the parlor. But perhaps as a vicar’s wife, she was accustomed to strange men knocking on her door, asking for her husband.

Or she already knew who he was.

Glancing about the room, his eye fell upon the painting. He felt as though someone had just slammed a two-by-four across his midsection. The pain was that instantaneous, that severe, when he saw the framed watercolor hanging over the mantel. He didn’t have to look at the artist’s signature; he recognized the work—a misty, otherworldly representation of the harbor during a festival of antique sailing vessels.

“That’s truly a remarkable painting, isn’t it?” a man asked from behind him. Edward used the excuse of studying the painting to calm his features and his emotions.

“My daughter sent that to me for Christmas,” the man continued. “I’ve asked her to find me more by this artist—Allison Long—but the cost of her work has skyrocketed. Oh, well. I suppose it is inevitable with talent like that. I should be grateful for the one I have.”

Was this man for real?

Edward schooled his features and turned slowly. The man across the room appeared guileless and innocent and a fitting partner for the woman who had admitted Edward to the house.

“I’m familiar with—with Ms. Long’s work,” Edward said softly, waiting.

The older man smiled. “Then we’ve both been blessed.” Then, slightly more formally, he extended his hand. “I’m Wilbur Winthrop. How may I be of assistance, Mr….”

“Carlton,” Edward told him, looking for any sign of recognition or hesitation in the vicar’s eyes and finding none. “Edward Carlton.”

“Please,” Winthrop said, gesturing toward a chintz-covered easy chair. “Sit down, Mr. Carlton. You seem… agitated. Would you care for some tea?”

“No, I—” Was he that easy to read? Edward sat in the proffered chair but refused to sink into its depths. He glanced at the folder in his hand, opened it and held the picture toward the vicar. “I’m here because of this.”

“Ah, Jennie,” Winthrop said. “Oh, my, that was fast. It doesn’t seem possible there has been enough time for it to appear in the paper and bring you here.”

That was neatly done, Edward recognized. Instead of being defensive, or volunteering information, the wily old minister was questioning him.

“The city editor knew of my interest,” Edward told him. A new thought lodged. “Did you send this to several papers or only—only the one?”

“Just the one, for a beginning,” Winthrop told him, taking a matching chair facing Edward and leaning forward. “And your interest in her… ?”

“Why?”

Winthrop blinked. “Why?”

“Why just the one paper?”

“Oh, because of its circulation. And because of her clothes. Marianna Richards recognized the one label we found as being from an exclusive San Francisco shop. And your interest in her?” he asked again.

Edward sighed. “What did she do? And how long has she been gone?”

“Do? Jennie? What makes you think Jennie did anything? And Mr. Carlton—” his voice lowered, firmed “—I really must insist you answer my question. What is your interest in our Jennie?”

Our Jennie? Edward took a deep, sustaining breath. “She didn’t mention me?”

The vicar shook his head slowly. “She mentioned only one person, if indeed she did mention anyone. Matilda was with her that night and isn’t sure she heard properly. It was a strange name, if a name at all.”

Edward studied the man across from him. He didn’t appear to be a victim, didn’t appear to be a conspirator. And, God knew, Edward had to trust someone. “I last saw her on the seventeenth of November.”

Winthrop nodded. “She came to us the week before Thanksgiving.”

“Less than—less than eight hours after our wedding.”

“Oh, my. Oh, my. Oh, dear,” the vicar said.

“When did she leave?” Edward asked, and questions welled up inside of him, spilling into the peace of the room. “How long was she here? What did she do that you found it necessary to run this?” He looked at the folder in his hand. “Did she know about it?”

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into the compassionate eyes of Wilbur Winthrop, who now stood before him.

“Mr. Carlton…” The vicar shook his head and crossed the room to a small cabinet, took out a glass and bottle and poured a drink, which he brought to Edward. He took Edward’s free hand and wrapped it around the squat, heavy crystal glass. “Medicinal,” he said in the same low, firm voice he had used in questioning Edward. “You really should drink it.”

Edward considered the vicar’s words and nodded. Winthrop had poured only an ounce or so of liquid into the glass. Edward drank it in two swallows, shuddered once and returned the glass to the minister. Winthrop patted his shoulder once again, placed the glass on a nearby table and resumed his place in the chair facing Edward. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he hesitated briefly as if carefully considering his words before speaking.

“Jennie came to us under extremely unusual circumstances, Mr. Carlton. And by being the warm, loving, gentle woman she is, she has touched all of us in this community.”

Winthrop’s smile was both self-deprecating and a little wry. “In case you didn’t notice, Avalon is… well, unique. And those of us who live here—who have lived here for generations—have become complacent and, to put it bluntly, more than a little smug about our obviously superior place in the world.”

Pausing briefly, the vicar continued. “Jennie’s needs—”

“What?”

Winthrop shook his head. “In good time, Mr. Carlton. You of all persons must know how special she is. Jennie’s needs jarred our self-created pedestals, forced us to look at ourselves and to reach into ourselves to give help to someone other than us or our immediate own. To give—because Jennie is who she is, because she responded to our care and caring with such openness and innocence—to give love to someone other than us or our immediate own.”

Edward again felt questions building inside of him. This woman the vicar described was the woman he’d thought he’d known, not the woman who’d left him. He felt his features hardening. What the hell was going on? He lifted the folder, now caught in a death grip.

“If she’s so open and honest and loving, then why—why did you find it necessary to do this?”

Winthrop reached over and peeled Edward’s fingers from the folder, which he dropped to the floor beside the chair.

“I’m sure our sheriff will want to ask you some questions, Mr. Carlton—”

“What-”

“Jennie was injured when she came to us.”

Edward felt himself trying to jerk to his feet, but Winthrop had hold of his hands, patting them as consolingly as he had earlier patted Edward’s shoulder. “I didn’t tell Jennie of my plans to contact various newspapers because I didn’t want to agitate her—or raise any false hope.”

“She’s still here, then?”

Winthrop nodded.

“Then why was the picture necessary? Why didn’t you just ask this open, honest, innocent?”

Winthrop looked at him through ageless, knowing eyes. “There is so much pain in you. What could have caused this?”

“Ask her.”

“I wish I could, Mr. Carlton. I pray daily for that option.” He raised one hand, either in supplication or to stop Edward’s continued attempts to stand. “I told you that Jennie was injured. It was rather more than a minor accident. We almost lost her. Even some of her doctors lost heart, at least for a while. I don’t ask her because she doesn’t know, Mr. Carlton. When she regained consciousness, Jennie had no memory of anything that had gone before.”

The concrete bench sat in a shaded arbor in the vicarage garden and was slightly cool, but the May sunshine, dappled through the leaves, and the gentle breeze were caressingly warm. Jennie raised her face to both sun and wind and laughed softly in delight.

“There, love,” Matilda said from her protective stance beside her. “Didn’t I promise you would enjoy this?”

“That you did, Matilda.”

“Now, drink your tea.”

Jennie grimaced but spoke with mellow good nature. “You’re beginning to sound like a nanny again, Mrs. Higgins.”

“Oops. Sorry.”

But Jennie could tell that the woman wasn’t sorry at all. She smiled in the general direction of her mother hen, took a sip from her cup, set it on the bench beside her and reached for Matilda’s hand. “Now, the guided tour you promised me. Please.”

“Where shall we start? The herb garden? The perennial garden? There is some spring color there. Or the maze?”

Jennie breathed deeply, fighting the sense of frustration and loss that bombarded her, fighting the tears that welled in her eyes. “Let’s start with something simple,” she suggested, hating the quaver she heard in her voice, “something I’m at least a little familiar with.” She found a bright smile for Matilda—the woman deserved no less. “Let’s start with—”

“Matilda? Mrs. Higgins?” Reverend Winthrop called from the house.

Matilda put a comforting hand on Jennie’s shoulder. “Would you like to wait here? I’ll just hurry and see what he wants and be right back.”

Jennie smiled and nodded. “Of course. I’m enjoying being out here. Take your time.”

She’d finished her tea, and Matilda still hadn’t returned. The bench was getting cooler. And the ray of sun had moved so that it no longer lay warm on her face. Jennie squirmed on the bench, easing tight muscles and trying to ignore the growing sensation of someone, or something, watching her. Maybe she could walk a short distance by herself. The paths were well defined; she’d learned that already. And the garden was walled—she’d learned that, too—so there was no way she could get lost.

The fine hairs on her nape prickled; her arms responded to the caress of unseen eyes. She twisted on the bench to face the direction from which those sensations seemed to come. “Is anyone there?” she whispered.

She shook her head, answering her own question. “Of course not.” Of course there wasn’t anyone there. The birds were still chirping merrily. She was just being… fanciful. She supposed it was the newness of being alone in the garden. She really ought to take advantage of this opportunity for independence. Her keepers were loving but much too protective. Surely she had some skills. But how was she ever going to discover them unless she explored?

For a moment, fear tightened her throat and raced her heart. For a moment, her hands clenched on the edge of the bench. She could do this! She could. Then she became aware again of the sensation of unseen eyes watching her. Panic welled up within her, unexpected and unexplainable. Giving a little cry, Jennie rose from the bench and stumbled along the garden walk.

Edward stood in the shade of an ancient oak tree watching the woman on the bench. She was lovely—selfcontained, beautiful. His wife. He felt pain twisting inside him again, as demanding and unwelcome as the desire that tightened and readied his body as he let his wayward eyes caress her.

For a few minutes after the older woman left her, Jennie had sat calmly, to all appearances enjoying her solitude. And Jennie in repose was truly beautiful—truly a beautiful sight in any attitude, he corrected. He’d always been aware of that, but the past six months had refined her beauty. He mourned the loss of her hair, but without the weight of its length, it curled softly—a dark chestnut cap to frame her finely drawn features and emphasize dark brown eyes that had always seemed to be alight with the joy of discovery.

A wide-brimmed, floppy hat with ribbon streamers lay on the bench beside Jennie, and she was wearing a softly floral-patterned, flowing dress. Edward felt the pressure of his lips drawn against his teeth. How appropriate, Jennie, he thought. And how much in character for your setting.

Did she really not remember the past? Edward doubted that, just as he doubted she would thank the minister for his well-intentioned interference with her plans for a haven.

He couldn’t fault Reverend Winthrop for his innocence, for being taken in by Jennie’s act. Hell! He’d been deceived, too. And he was experienced in facing the dark side of his fellow creatures. Before Jennie, many had tried; the Carlton money, the Carlton power were too tempting for a greedy person to pass by without at least attempting to gain some. He’d learned that in a harsh and well-remembered school. But until Jennie, no one had succeeded in getting past the defenses he had so painstakingly constructed.

He clenched his hands into fists. Damn it, Jennie! Why? J wanted to give you the world. I wanted to give you my heart.

And that, of course, answered his question. The world, Jennie would have taken. It was Edward she didn’t want. And although that knowledge still had the power to hurt, it had no power to surprise him. He had always wondered how the laughing, delightful, loving woman he’d thought he’d known could love him, reserved, incapable of voicing even the simplest terms of affection or letting himself believe that love truly existed—unless what she felt for him was really only pity.

Well, he’d been wrong. About himself. About her. Love existed. It had trapped him in a hell from which he might never escape. And pity hadn’t controlled Jennie’s actions toward him. Greed had. Why hadn’t he listened to Madeline from the beginning? Madeline was more than a trusted employee, she was the closest thing to a friend he had allowed himself in years.

As though the turbulence of his thoughts had somehow called out to her, the woman on the bench twisted slightly, raised a hand to the back of her neck and appeared to be listening. Edward leaned back against the tree, deeper in the shadows. He would announce himself soon—Winthrop had granted him only a few minutes alone with her—but not yet. He felt strangely debilitated, unsure of himself and of his ability to confront this woman who had betrayed his deepest trust.

Not yet.

Again, Jennie fidgeted on the bench, but this time she turned, too, until she faced him. Looking almost directly at the spot where he stood beneath the tree, she whispered, “Is anyone there?” Then her eyes darkened. She shook her head. “Of course not,” she said in the same tense whisper. She seemed to listen for a moment longer, her hands clenched on the edge of the bench. Then, with a soft cry that could have been a moan or a plea, she rose from the bench like a startled fawn unused to its new legs, and stumbled away from him, along the brick walk.

Edward’s eyebrows drew together in a stunned frown. Jennie was a graceful woman, as light, as ethereal on her feet as a moonbeam. Why then this halting, awkward gait?

He saw the raised bricks of the path where an ancient root had tunneled beneath and lifted them; Jennie apparently did not. With a startled cry, she fell, tumbling from the path and into a bed of some green ground-cover. Edward started toward her, but something about her actions slowed his steps.

Her eyes filled with tears. “Damn,” she moaned, flailing at the ground with tiny balled fists. “Damn! Damn! Damn!”

She took a deep, shuddering breath and knelt there in the plants for a moment, as still as death, then began patting the earth in front of her, as though looking for something. When her hands encountered the brick walk, she crawled forward until she touched the elevated bricks. She patted them three or four times as though validating their existence or confirming their blame for her fall.

She dragged herself to her feet and shuffled carefully onto the path, then stood very still.

And Edward stood equally still, transfixed by the actions of this woman he had once called a wood sprite.

Jennie took one careful step, then stopped. She turned and reached in front of her, groping at space as she took another step.

Edward saw her eyes, troubled, filled with frustration. Tears quivered on her lashes. She bit at her lower lip, and her eyes darkened, the frustration shifting, changing to— to panic?

“Is anyone there?” she whispered again, her hands extended, palms out. “Please. I can feel you here. Please. Please say something.”

And the truth slammed into Edward with the force of the worst pain he had ever felt—the pain of knowing she was truly gone, that after enticing, inviting and winning his love, she had left him.

The truth. Oh, God. Edward bit back the involuntary cry that lodged near his heart.

Jennie Carlton, his wife—Allison Jennifer Long Carlton—the artist whose work Wilbur Winthrop declared had blessed both their lives—Jennie was blind.