Читать книгу Escape for New Year - Shirley Jump - Страница 15

Bishop put a deposit down on the pup and Laura gave her furry baby another big cuddle goodbye. She spoke of little else all the way to the Darling Harbor apartment or on the way home to the Blue Mountains. Bishop couldn’t decide if he felt relieved or ridden with guilt that he’d agreed to her getting a dog.

This time two years ago they’d had very near the same conversation. He’d stuck to his guns about checking out potential pets yet had agreed a short time later to Laura falling pregnant. He knew why he’d made that call. Laura would be able to abide by the logic behind checking out a dog’s pedigree, but despite his own reservations, in his heart he understood, now more than ever, that Laura would never forget about conceiving and having her own child. Clearly, regardless of everything they’d gone through—everything she’d gone through—Laura hadn’t put aside her deeper feelings.

Had he been wrong to expect such a sacrifice on her part in the first place? Had his insecurities been more important than her desire to be a mother in the truest sense? He’d thought he was merely being cautious, a responsible parent-to-be, but perhaps he’d simply been selfish putting his wishes above hers.

After he swung the Land Rover into the garage, he removed the luggage from the trunk, recalling how he’d rationalized this all the first time, when they’d been three months married. If Laura was willing to take the risk, he’d come to the conclusion that he could do little other than support her choice. It wasn’t about courage or recklessness or defeat on his part. Back then it had been about love and, initially, she’d understood that. The here and now was about seeing if there was any chance they might get that love back.

When he’d married Laura he’d believed to his soul that she would be his wife for life. Divorce papers and living apart hadn’t changed that ingrained perception, which was only one of the reasons he would never marry again. Beneath all the murk of the breakup, behind the smoke and mirrors of her amnesia, did Laura feel the same way? Reasonably, why else would her mind wind back to this precise point in her life, in their relationship, if not for some deep desire to change the misfortune that had come before? Statistics said her memory would return over time. When it did, she could tell him whether he’d taken advantage of the situation or if this time he’d been the one who’d taken a risk that might pay off.

When Bishop moved inside with their luggage, Laura was standing in front of the fireplace, peering up at their wedding portrait, her head tilted to one side as if something wasn’t quite right.

While she’d chatted to Grace Saturday morning, he’d found their wedding photograph stashed at the back of a wardrobe in the adjacent guest room. His heart had thudded the entire time he’d perched atop a stepladder and rehung the print, but he had an excuse handy should she walk in. A spider’s web had spread across one corner, he’d decided to say, and he’d taken the print down to see if the culprit was living behind the frame.

But she’d stayed on the phone a half hour and hadn’t noticed the portrait either way after that. As he watched her now, inching closer to the fireplace, examining the print as though it were a newly discovered Picasso, he considered the other discrepancies she might wonder about now that they were home again. Things that didn’t quite fit.

He’d bat the questions back as they came and tomorrow he’d get her into a general practitioner who could give them a referral to a specialist. Until then he’d wing it and let the pieces fall as they may.

Still engrossed in the photograph, she tapped a finger at the air, obviously finally figuring out what was wrong.

“It’s crooked,” she announced.

After lowering the luggage, he retrieved the stepladder, which was still handy. As he set it up before the fireplace, ready to straighten the frame, Laura continued to analyze.

“It seems so long ago,” she said, “and yet …” She released a breath she must have been holding and a short laugh slipped out. “Can you believe we’ve been married a whole three months?”

He grinned back. “Seems longer.”

He straightened the frame. She took in the angle, then nodded. “Perfect.”

On his way down the ladder, he remembered the sketch lying on the car’s backseat. “Have you thought where you might hang the other one?”

“Mr. Frenchie’s? We’ll need to get it framed first. Something modern, slim-lined, fresh!”

She was headed toward the phone extension. As she collected the receiver, Bishop’s pulse rate jackknifed and he strode over. When he took the receiver from her, her chin pulled in.

Hoping unease didn’t show in his eyes, he found an excuse.

“We’ve only just come home.” He set the receiver back in its cradle. “Don’t you want to unpack, have a coffee, before we let the outside world in?”

“I was expecting Kathy to leave a message about the library. I told you about the literacy program we want to set up. We usually get together Wednesdays if there’s anything to discuss.”

She waited for him to back down, to say, of course, call your friend. But if he did that, Kathy would likely ask what on earth Laura was rabbiting on about. Laura would expand and not clued in, Kathy would laugh, perhaps a little uneasily, and say that her friend was living in the past. That what Laura was talking about happened two years ago.

Should he protect her from such a harsh jolt or hand the phone over and let friend Kathy help unravel this tangle of yarn? He’d been prepared to field any blow when last night he’d questioned her about losing a baby, so what was different now? Other than the fact that he wouldn’t have control over how this conversation wound out. No control at all.

He glanced over the luggage by the door then their wedding portrait, rehung on that wall. Were they home again or should he have kept the engine running?

Resigned, he stepped back.

“I won’t be on the phone all day,” she said, guessing at his problem. She could talk under water once she got started. “I just promised Kathy I’d call her early in the week to check.”

“Take as long as you like.”

He moved down the hall, feeling as if he were walking the corridor of a listing ship … as if he were traveling back, deeper and deeper through time. If he walked far enough, fast enough, maybe Kathy wouldn’t ask questions and the present, and its regurgitated disappointments, wouldn’t catch up … at least not today.

He ended up out on the eastern balcony. For what seemed like a lifetime, he absorbed the warm afternoon sun and soothing noise of the bush … the click of beetles, the far-off cry of a curlew. To his left, a couple of wallabies were perched on a monstrous black rock. They chewed rhythmically and occasionally scratched a soft gray ear. Their manner was lazy, instinctive, as it had been for many thousands of years. Bishop breathed in, and the strong scent of pine and eucalypt filled his lungs. As fervently as he’d wanted to leave here a year ago, he’d missed this place.

Hell, he’d missed this life.

But with Laura talking to that friend inside, he felt the cool edge of an axe resting at the back of his neck. Would it fall now? Tomorrow? Next week? How in God’s name would this end?

Laura’s footfalls sounded on the Brush Box timber floor behind him and the hairs on Bishop’s nape stood up. But he was ready for the attack. Like Willis had said, it couldn’t get any worse than the first time.

He angled around. Laura was striding out onto the porch but he couldn’t read her expression.

“Kathy was home,” she told him.

He folded down into a chair. “Uh-huh.”

“But her daughter and grandbabies were over. She said there was no meeting this week.”

The sick ache high in his stomach eased slightly and he sat straighter. “She did?”

That was it?

“She said she’d call back, but I said not to worry. We’d just got back from the city and had unpacking to do.”

We?

He threaded his hands and, elbows on armrests, steepled two fingers under his chin.

“What did Kathy say to that?”

“The baby started to cry so she had to go.”

Even more relieved, he exhaled slowly. One massive pothole avoided. Although, sure bet, there’d be more—and soon.

He’d tried being subtle as a brick with his prodding last night. The questions he’d asked about possible pregnancies hadn’t ignited any sparks. Rather than approaching this dilemma at ramming speed, perhaps he ought to take this opportunity to scratch around and sprinkle a few seeds—ask some casual questions—that would grow in her mind day-to-day.

He lowered his hands. “How old is Kathy’s grandbaby?”

Laura spotted the wallabies. A brisk mountain breeze combing her hair, she moved toward the railing for a better look. “Oh, three or four months, I suppose.”

“Kathy has more than one grandchild?”

“Just the one.”

And yet she’d said grandbabies, plural, earlier. An unconscious lapse to the present?

“What’s the baby’s name?”

Her gaze skated away from the bush and she lifted a wry brow. “I think it might be Twenty Questions.” Then her grip on the railing slackened off and she gave a quick laugh. “Since when did you get so interested in the local librarian’s grandchildren?”

“I’m interested in you.”

Thinking how the afternoon light glistened like threads of golden copper through her hair, he found his feet and joined her.

Her smile turned sultry as she traced a fingertip down his arm. “How interested?”

“Interested enough.”

“Enough to take another day off?”

He focused on her lips.

“Too easy.”

The brightest smile he’d ever seen graced her face. But a heartbeat later the joy slipped away and some other emotion flared in her eyes. A cagey, almost frightened look, and he wondered what he’d said. But she didn’t say a word, although he could tell from the questions in her eyes that she wanted to.

His hands found her shoulders. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Tell me what you’re thinking.

“I—I’m not sure. I guess I’m not used to you taking time off. Not that I don’t want you to. It’s just …”

He dug a little more. “What?”

Her gaze darted around his face. The color had drained from her cheeks and some of the trust in her eyes had fallen away.

“Bishop … I have to ask.” She stopped. Swallowed. Wet her lips. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

She’d just had the strangest feeling. More than a feeling. That niggling again, which, rather than waning, had grown, and a lot. Still, she couldn’t put a precise finger on where, or what or who was behind it. She only knew it had been there in the way his assistant Willis had looked at her when he and Bishop had returned from their talk in the hotel lobby. There again when she’d examined their wedding picture after they’d arrived home and just now … some gesture, some word, had brought that awareness shooting like a cork to the surface of her consciousness. It was like a runaway thought she couldn’t quite catch … a dream she couldn’t quite remember. A moment ago Bishop had asked some everyday questions about a friend and yet, standing on this spot, with those wallabies on that rock and the sun at precisely this angle …

A hot pin had wedged under her ribs and, try as she might, she couldn’t remove it. What had happened—what had been said—to make her feel as if she’d crashed into a ten-foot high brick wall at warp speed?

She focused on his eyes. What aren’t you telling me?

“There is … something,” he said.

The hot pin slid out and, breathing again, she leaned back, letting the railing catch her weight.

So it hadn’t been her imagination. For a second she’d thought she might be going mad! But whatever it was nagging, there was a reason and Bishop was about to tell her.

“I haven’t told you …” he began haltingly “… not enough anyway … how much you meant to me.”

Like a well filling, her relief rose higher, but then that niggling pricked again and she frowned. What he’d said didn’t quite make sense. The tense was wrong. I haven’t told you how much you meant to me?

“You mean, you haven’t told me how much I mean to you.”

“I want you to know it now.”

His tone was so grave and his expression … He looked almost sad.

Her heart melting, she found his hand and pressed it to her cheek as a lump of emotion fisted in her throat. Her husband loved her. Really loved her. She was so lucky. So much luckier than most.

“I know, darling,” she murmured. “I feel the same way.”

He seemed to consider his next words. She could almost see him lining them up in his mind.

“I was taken aback when I saw you lying in that hospital bed.”

She thought that through and came to a conclusion.

“You thought something was wrong with my heart?” Oh, no! She wanted to hug him so tight. Reassure him everything was all right. “I would’ve been in a cardio ward. Besides, that’s all under control.” She turned her head to kiss his palm. “Easy.”

That pin jabbed again, deeper and sharper this time and her heart missed a beat at the same instant her gaze trailed away and she tried to grasp on to and hold that elusive, annoying thought.

“I wasn’t sure what to expect,” he was saying.

Drifting back, she found his gaze again. “That’s why you acted so strangely?”

He nodded. “I’d seen you in hospital before.”

She narrowed her eyes, thinking back. She’d been in hospital in her younger years, but …

Certain beyond doubt, she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“No?”

The pin stabbed again, so deep it made her flinch. She held her chest and, a knee-jerk reaction, wound away from him. At the same time, a noise—a crunching kind of rattle—echoed to her left. Her gaze shot over. She expected to see—

She held her brow.

—she couldn’t think what.

She concentrated to form a picture in her mind, but she only saw those wallabies bounding off; they must have pushed loose gravel over the side. Now their boomerang tails and strong hind legs were catapulting them away, farther into the brush.

Here one minute. Gone the next.

Gone for good.

Those words looped around in her mind. She shivered and hugged herself tight. Her mind was playing tricks. Tricks that were seriously doing her head in. But she had a remedy.

Shaky inside, she feigned a smile. She hated to sound fragile, but she needed to lie down.

“Bishop, do you mind if I take myself off to bed early? Our late night must be catching up.”

“You have another headache.”

“No. Just … tired.” Taking her elbow, he ushered her inside. “Wake me up when you come to bed?” she asked.

As if to confirm it, he dropped a kiss on her crown. As they moved down the hall, she felt compelled to ask him to promise. That’s what a newly married bride would do, no matter how tired, right?

But the words didn’t come. And as that pin pricked again—niggling, enflaming—she only wished she knew why.