Heroes Are My Weakness

  Annie could see it as if she’d been there, and she wanted to wipe away the image.

  “The powerboat was out of the water for repairs,” he said, “so I jumped in the water, somehow thinking I could catch her. The surf was strong. She saw me and yelled at me to go back. I kept swimming. The waves were breaking over me, but I could still catch glimpses of her face. She looked so sorry, so apologetic. So fricking apologetic. Then she trimmed the sails and raced out into the storm.” He unclenched his fist. “That was the last time I saw her alive.”

  Annie clenched her fists. It was wrong to hate someone with a mental illness, but Regan had not only destroyed herself and nearly killed Annie; she’d done her best to destroy Theo, too. “Regan got you good, didn’t she? The perfect revenge.”

  “You don’t understand,” he said with a bitter laugh. “Regan didn’t kill herself to punish me. She did it to set me free.”

  Annie came out of her chair. “You don’t know that!”

  “Yeah, I do.” He finally looked at her. “Sometimes we could read each other’s minds, and that moment was one of them.”

  She remembered Regan’s tears over a gull with a broken wing. In her sane moments, she must have hated this part of herself.

  Annie knew not to let any of the pity she felt show in her face, but what he’d done to himself was wrong. “Regan’s plan didn’t work. You still think you’re responsible for her death.”

  He dismissed her sympathy with a harsh slash of his hand. “Regan. Kenley. Look for the common element, and you’ll find me.”

  “What you’ll find are two mentally ill women and a man with an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. You couldn’t have saved Regan. Sooner or later, she would have destroyed herself. The more troublesome question is Kenley. You say you were attracted to her because she was the opposite of Regan, but is that true?”

  “You don’t understand. She was brilliant. She seemed so independent.”

  “I get that, but you must have sensed her neediness underneath all that.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Now he was angry, but Annie plowed on. “Is it possible you saw your relationship with her as a way to make up for what had happened to Regan? You hadn’t been able to save your sister, but maybe you could save Kenley?”

  His lip curled. “That psych degree you got off the Internet sure does come in handy.”

  She’d gotten her insights into human psychology in acting workshops dedicated to understanding a character’s deepest motivations. “You’re a natural caretaker, Theo. Have you ever thought that writing might be your rebellion against whatever it is inside you that makes you feel responsible for other people?”

  “You’re digging way too deep,” he said harshly.

  “Just think about it, okay? If you’re right about Regan, imagine how much she’d hate the way you keep punishing yourself.”

  His barely concealed hostility told her she couldn’t push him any further. She’d planted the seeds. Now she had to step back and see if any of them would grow. She walked toward the door. “In case you start to wonder . . . You’re a great guy and a halfway decent lover, but no way would I ever kill myself over you.”

  “Comforting.”

  “Or lose even a minute’s sleep.”

  “Vaguely insulting, but . . . thanks for the clarity.”

  “This is the way sane women behave. Tuck that away for future reference.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  The sudden constriction in her chest contradicted her glibness. Her heart ached for him. He hadn’t come to the island to write. He’d come here to do penance for two deaths he believed were his responsibility. Harp House wasn’t his refuge. It was his punishment.

  THE NEXT MORNING AS SHE pulled a cereal box from the cupboard, she glanced at the calendar she’d hung on the wall. Thirty-four days down, twenty-six to go. Theo came into the kitchen and told her he had to go to the mainland. “My publisher is driving up from Portland. I’m going to meet with her in Camden and take care of some business. Ed Compton is bringing me back on his boat tomorrow evening.”

  She grabbed a bowl. “Lucky you. Streetlights, paved roads, Starbucks—not that I could actually afford Starbucks.”

  “I’ll go there for you.” He held up one hand as if he knew she’d object to whatever he was about to say. “I know you’re armed and dangerous, but I’m asking you to stay at Harp House while I’m gone. This is a polite request, not an order.”

  He’d tried to take care of Regan and of Kenley, and now he was trying to take care of her. “You’re such a girl,” she said.

  He answered that by leaning back on his heels and glaring at her, every inch of him the embodiment of pissed-off masculinity.

  “That was a compliment,” she said. “Sort of. The whole nurturing thing you have going . . . ? As much as I appreciate your watchdog attitude, I’m not one of those needy females you tend to collect.”

  He gave her his baddest badass sneer. “That whip idea you had . . . I’m liking it more and more.”

  She wanted to rip off his clothes and devour him right there. Instead, she sniffed, “I’ll stay at Harp House, girlfriend, just to keep you from worrying.”

  Her taunt had its desired effect. He took her right there on the kitchen floor. And it was exhilarating.

  AS MUCH AS ANNIE DIDN’T like the idea of sleeping at Harp House, she agreed to appease him. On her way, she stopped to inspect the fairy house. Using sticks, Theo had built a cantilevered balcony over the doorway. He’d also turned a few clamshells on their sides and scattered some of the paving stones, evidence of a late-night fairy frolic. She turned to face the sun. After enduring so much cold weather, she’d never again take a bright winter day for granted.

  The fragrance of freshly baked banana bread met her as she stepped into the kitchen. Jaycie was a better baker than cook, and she’d been making these small treats ever since Annie had confronted her about her husband’s death. It was her way of making amends for not confiding her past.

  Remnants of construction paper from one of Livia’s art projects lay on the table next to the bread. Annie had spent hours on the Internet delving into articles about deep childhood trauma. When she’d come across information about puppet therapy, she’d been especially intrigued. But it was a specialized field with trained therapists, and the articles had made her even more aware of how much she didn’t know.

  Jaycie came into the kitchen. She’d been on crutches for weeks, but she still moved as awkwardly as ever. “I got a text from Theo,” she said. “He’s on his way to the mainland.” Her voice developed an uncharacteristic edge. “I bet you’re going to miss him.”

  Annie had criticized Jaycie for not being forthcoming, yet Annie was being equally withholding. But she couldn’t imagine announcing they were lovers. Nothing had changed the fact that she owed Jaycie her life. She thought about the day Regan had pushed her into the marsh. Jaycie had been there, but she’d lagged far enough behind that she must not have seen the actual push.

  As the afternoon wore on, Annie’s mood dipped. She’d grown to look forward to being with Theo at the end of the day. And not just for the incredible sex. She simply liked being with him.

  Get used to it, Dilly said, in her normal straightforward manner. Your ill-advised love affair is going to be over soon.

  Sex affair, Annie corrected her. And do you think I don’t understand that?

  You tell me, Dilly said.

  Whether Annie liked it or not, this ache she felt at his absence was a wake-up call. She made herself focus on the evening ahead, one she was determined to enjoy. The articles on puppet therapy had been fascinating. She did some more research, then settled down with the ancient gothic paperback she’d brought with her. What better place to read one of her spooky old favorites than at Harp House?

  By midnight, however, the story of the cynical duke and virginal lady’s companion hadn’t worked its magic, and she still couldn’t fall asleep. Dinner ha
d been sparse, and there was banana bread in the kitchen. She slipped out of bed and stuffed her feet in her sneakers.

  The lamp in the upstairs hallway cast a long yellow shadow up the wall, and the stairs creaked as she made her way into the foyer. A full moon threw blades of silver light through the panes of glass above the front door—not enough to illuminate the area, only enough to emphasize its gloom. The house had never felt more forbidding. She rounded the corner into the back hallway . . . And froze.

  Jaycie was making her way toward her apartment, and her crutches were nowhere in sight.

  An icy panic paralyzed Annie. Jaycie walked with perfectly erect posture. There was nothing wrong with her foot. Nothing at all.

  Annie’s ears rang from the memory of the bullet whizzing past her head. She saw Crumpet hanging from the ceiling, the bloodred warning painted on the wall. Jaycie had a motive for wanting her gone. Had Annie overlooked the obvious? Was Jaycie the one who’d vandalized the cottage? Had she fired that bullet?

  Jaycie had nearly reached the door of her apartment when she stopped. She looked up, tilting her head ever so slightly, almost as if she were listening for any movement above her. And since Annie was the only person upstairs . . .

  Jaycie began to move, not into her apartment but back the way she’d come. Annie cut into the dark kitchen and flattened her spine to the wall just inside the doorway. Her paralysis lost its grip. She wanted to grab Jaycie and shake the truth out of her.

  Jaycie passed by the kitchen.

  Annie eased out into the hallway in time to see her turn toward the front foyer. Staying well back, Annie followed her, barely avoiding one of Livia’s My Little Pony figures abandoned on the floor. She peered around the corner. Jaycie had stopped at the bottom of the staircase. As Annie watched, she slowly began mounting the steps.

  Anger and betrayal burned inside her. She pressed the back of her head against the wall. She didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to confront the truth that was staring her in the face. It had been Jaycie all along. Her anger burned hotter. She wasn’t letting her get away with this.

  She began to pull away from the wall, only to hear Scamp’s scoffing voice. You’re going after her now? Just like the most dim-witted heroine. It’s the dead of night. There’s an arsenal in this house, and for all you know, Jaycie has a gun. She’s already murdered her husband. Have you learned nothing from your novels?

  Annie gritted her teeth. No matter how much she hated it, this confrontation had to wait for daylight when she had a cooler head. And a gun of her own. She forced herself back into the kitchen, snatched her coat from the hook, and escaped from the house.

  A soft whinny came from inside the stable. The spruces creaked, and a night creature scuttled through the brush. Despite the bright moonlight, the descent was treacherous. She slipped on loose rock. An owl hooted a warning. All this time she’d thought someone was after the legacy, but that hadn’t been it at all. Jaycie wanted to drive Annie away so she could have Theo to herself. It was as if Regan’s darkness had found a home inside Jaycie.

  By the time Annie reached the marsh, her teeth were chattering. She looked back at the house. A light burned from a window in the turret. She shivered, imagining Jaycie staring down at her, then remembered she’d left the light on herself when she’d gone up there earlier.

  As she gazed at the massive shadow of Harp House and the glowing turret window, she experienced a moment of the blackest humor. This was just like the cover of one of her old gothic paperbacks. But instead of fleeing the haunted mansion in the dark of night wearing a billowing gossamer gown, Annie was fleeing in a pair of flannel Santa pajamas.

  Gooseflesh crept up her spine as she approached the dark cottage. Had Jaycie already discovered Annie had fled? Her anger resurfaced. She’d deal with her tomorrow before Theo could get back and try to take over. This was her fight alone.

  Except it wasn’t. She thought of Livia. What would happen to her?

  The nausea she’d been fighting ever since she’d seen Jaycie walk struck. She fumbled in her pocket for the door key and fit it into the latch. The door gave an ominous squeak. As she let herself inside, she reached for the light switch.

  Nothing happened.

  Booker had told her how to start the generator, but she hadn’t imagined doing it in the dark. She grabbed the flashlight she kept by the door and turned to go back outside when a soft, almost imperceptible sound stopped her cold.

  Something had moved on the other side of the room.

  Her toes curled in her sneakers. She stopped breathing. The pistol was in her bedroom. All she had was the flashlight. She raised her arm and shot the beam across the room.

  Hannibal’s yellow eyes gazed back at her, his stuffed-mouse toy clutched between his paws.

  “You stupid cat! You scared me to death!”

  Hannibal stuck his nose in the air and batted the mouse across the floor.

  She glowered at him as she waited for her heartbeat to return to normal. When she was reasonably certain she’d recovered enough to move, she stomped back out into the night. She was not born to be an islander.

  You’re doing a pretty good job of it, Leo said.

  Your cheerleader routine is creeping me out, she told him.

  You’re reprimanding a puppet, Dilly reminded her.

  A puppet who had stopped acting like himself.

  She made it to the generator and tried to remember what Booker had told her. As she began to go through the steps, she heard the faintest sound of an engine approaching from the main road. Who would be coming out here now? It might be someone with a medical emergency looking for Theo, except everyone would know by now that he’d left the island. And that Annie was here alone . . .

  She abandoned the generator and raced inside to get the pistol from her nightstand. She wasn’t absolutely sure she could shoot anyone, but she wasn’t sure she couldn’t either.

  When she returned to the darkened living room, she had the gun in hand. She stood off to the side of the front window and listened to pings of loose gravel. Headlights swept across the marsh. Whoever was driving didn’t seem to be making any effort to approach quietly. Maybe Theo had somehow managed to catch a middle-of-the-night ride from the mainland.

  Keeping a firm grip on the pistol, she peered around the edge of the window and saw a pickup pull in front of the cottage and stop. A truck she recognized.

  By the time she’d opened the front door, Barbara Rose was getting out, leaving the engine running. In the glow coming from the open driver’s door, Annie saw the hem of her pink pastel nightgown hanging from under her coat.

  Barbara rushed toward her. Annie couldn’t see her expression, but she sensed her urgency. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, Annie . . .” Barbara pressed her hand to her mouth. “It’s Theo . . .”

  A spigot seemed to open in the front of Annie’s chest, draining her body of blood.

  Barbara clutched Annie’s arm. “He was in an accident.”

  Her grasp was the only thing holding Annie up.

  “He’s in surgery,” Barbara said.

  Not dead. Still alive.

  “How—how do you know?”

  “Someone from the hospital called. The reception was terrible. I don’t know if they tried to reach you first. I understood only half the message.” Barbara was as breathless as if she’d just run a long distance.

  “But . . . He’s alive?”

  “Yes. I got that much. But it’s serious.”

  “Oh, God . . .” The words came from high in her throat. A prayer.

  “I phoned Naomi.” Barbara was fighting tears. “She’ll take you over on the Ladyslipper.”

  Barbara didn’t ask if Annie wanted to go to him, and Annie didn’t hesitate. There was no decision to make. She grabbed the first clothes she could find, and within minutes, they were barreling into town. Annie could live without the cottage, but the thought of the world without Theo was unbearable. He was everything a man s
hould be. He had a brilliant mind and a sterling character. He was a man of conscience: trustworthy, intelligent, and caring. So caring he took on the demons of others as his own.

  And she loved him for it.

  She loved him. There it was. The thing she’d vowed would never happen. She loved Theo Harp. Not just his body or his face. Not just for sex or companionship. Definitely not for his money. She loved him for who he was. For his beautiful, tortured, kind soul. If he lived, she would stand by him. It made no difference if he were scarred, paralyzed, or brain damaged. She would be there for him.

  Just let him live. Please, God, let him live.

  The wharf lights were on when they reached the dock. Annie rushed toward Naomi, who was waiting next to the skiff that would take them out to the Ladyslipper. She was as grim-faced as Barbara. Wild, awful thoughts swirled through Annie’s head. They knew Theo was dying, and neither of them wanted to tell her.

  Annie jumped in the skiff. Soon they were racing out of the harbor. Annie turned her back to the retreating shoreline.

  Chapter Twenty

  MY HUSBAND IS IN SURGERY.” The word tasted all wrong on Annie’s lips, but if she didn’t identify herself as family, the doctors wouldn’t talk to her. “Theo Harp.”

  The woman behind the desk turned her attention to her computer. Annie squeezed the keys to the Honda Civic Naomi kept on the mainland, a much better car than the clunker she drove on the island. The woman looked up from her computer. “How do you spell the last name?”

  “H-A-R-P. Like the instrument.”

  “We don’t have anyone here by that name.”

  “You do!” Annie cried. “He was in a serious accident. The hospital called. He’s in surgery.”

  “Let me double-check.” The woman picked up her phone and turned her chair away.

  Annie waited, her sense of dread growing by the second. Maybe he wasn’t in the computer records because he was already—

  The woman set down the phone. “We have no record of him, ma’am. He’s not here.”