You Don't Want To Know

  “Really?” she challenged.

  His answer was to stalk out of the room.

  That night she dreamed again. This time she heard the sound of a child’s footsteps outside her door. She threw off the covers and ran outside her room to the night-darkened hallway. Tiny pools of illumination, from the night-lights that had been installed after Noah’s birth, guided her. “Noah?” she whispered. “Noah?”

  Did she see him rounding a corner? Was that his soft sigh over the hum of the furnace?

  She hurried from one room to the next, trying doors, finding some locked and others opening to dark, empty spaces, where beds were made and windows were shuttered.

  Where was he?

  Not here . . . not here . . .

  Her heart wrenched painfully as she hurried down the stairs, her bare feet slipping a little on the runner.

  Where is he?

  Who has him?

  Noah!

  There is no enemy. It’s all in your mind.

  “Noah!” she cried desperately, and heard her own voice echo back at her. “Noah!” Where was he? Her knees trembled, and clinging to the newel post, she let herself slide into a puddle at the base of the stairs in the foyer. Her heart ached, pounding with dread in her ears.

  “Ava . . . Jesus . . .” Wyatt was leaning over the balcony rail on the second floor. “Oh, God . . . hang on!” She heard his footsteps pounding down the stairs, felt the vibration in the post, and still she clung to it. “Come here . . .” Strong arms surrounded her, held her close.

  “It’s Noah,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “I heard him, Wyatt. I heard my baby.”

  “Oh, honey, no . . . he’s gone.”

  “Don’t say that!” She tried to pull away, but he held her close.

  “Shhh . . .” With little effort he picked her up and carried her to the elevator; then, holding her close and whispering into her hair that everything would be all right, he pushed the button for the second floor.

  In less than a minute, they were at the bedroom, and as he carried her to the bed, she swore she heard the sound of his heartbeat, strong and steady while her own heart was breaking into a thousand pieces.

  “Ava, it’s gonna be all right,” he said, though she doubted he believed his own words. “Shhh.” He kissed her damp cheek as he laid her onto the comforter. “It’s another dream, nothing more.” Brushing the hair from her face, he looked into her eyes, and in the dark room, she saw compassion and something more in their depths.

  “I just miss him so much,” she whispered.

  “Me too.” His face was twisted with emotions that were as raw as the night. “And I miss you, Ava. I miss us.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, her voice cracking as his lips found hers, and the sweet, delicate kiss deepened into something more, something wild and aflame. The back of her neck burned hot with a passion she’d thought was dead forever, and when his tongue pressed against her lips, she parted them willingly. Anxiously. Eagerly. Her arms wound around his neck, and he slid into the bed with her, pushing off the covers, nudging her knees apart with his. The bedsprings creaked, and something deep inside her broke as she clung to him and closed her eyes and mind to the doubts, the pain, the fear.

  She felt his hands on her body, sculpting her, touching her breasts, causing her nipples to harden. Her back arched in anticipation, and he, with one hand splayed over her spine, pulled her tight against him.

  Strong, corded muscles pressed urgently to hers, and she gave in to the heat coursing through her blood, the need pulsing deep in the darkest, moist parts of her.

  Don’t do this, her mind insisted. Making love to him is dangerous. Trusting him is lethal.

  But he’s my husband, she silently argued as her spine tingled and her breasts swelled. I loved him once.

  This is madness. Treachery. Yes, there was a time when he brought you to the edge, over and over again, caused your body and soul to ignite in passion, but that was a long time ago. He’s not the same, Ava, and neither are you.

  He growled against her ear, his hands tangling in her hair, and for a split second as she gazed at him, she saw something different in his gaze, a fleeting glint of victory, as if somehow he’d won.

  Something deep inside her brain ruptured and in another instant she saw that Wyatt wasn’t Wyatt at all, but a stranger, a man she’d never known.

  With that revelation, she expected her ardor to cool, her mind to pull herself out of this emotional vortex, but her heart continued to pound. Her blood was still hot with desire as it coursed through her veins, and she wrapped her arms around her unknown lover, who kissed her hard. Passionately. His mouth ground anxiously against hers, his lips hot, his tongue creating a magic as it flicked and teased, trailing over her fevered skin.

  Her breasts tightened and she cradled his head to her as he kissed and laved each nipple.

  Desire ran in ripples throughout her body and she wanted more . . . so much more.

  He took her hand, showed her how to pleasure herself and him, and she pushed her body against him, her spine arching, her hips moving . . . God she wanted him . . . all of him . . . and when she finally opened her eyes to stare into his, she realized that this man, this figment of her imagination who had induced such fire in her blood and heat deep within, looked a helluva lot like Austin Dern.

  CHAPTER 20

  No one was in the bed with her.

  Of course.

  The side of the bed where Wyatt, or whoever, would have lain wasn’t mussed. There was no impression on the mattress, no warmth radiating from a recently vacated space. No smell coming from the sheets.

  It was all in Ava’s fractured mind.

  Again.

  She was so weary of it all.

  Worse yet, her body felt as if someone had touched her and caressed her, though that’s as far as it went. Other than a little puncture on her finger that she didn’t remember getting, she showed no signs that she’d done anything other than sleep and toss and turn in the night. No sense of sexual release was present, no soreness between her legs, no stains on the bed where she lay.

  Once again, all in her mind.

  Though it was still dark, the house was stirring. Light seeped in under the crack in the doorway, and she heard the sound of dishes rattling. Outside, a seagull cried as the wind buffeted the house, the gusts rattling the old panes in the windows.

  Her erotic dream wouldn’t quite leave. It chased after her, nagging at her mind as she showered and dressed, even causing her to stop for a second and stare at her reflection as she was brushing her hair into a ponytail. A sex dream. With Wyatt. And Austin Dern.

  She made a growling sound, pure frustration, before snapping the rubber band into place and brushing her teeth. She rarely remembered her dreams, but this one seemed branded in her brain.

  Outside her room, in the open hallway, she walked past several doors until she came to Noah’s room and pushed open the door. At least she could cross the threshold now without falling apart.

  The room was just as she’d left it the other day, and though she told herself it was time to put his baby things away, she didn’t have the heart. She imagined him in the room, cooing and talking nonsensically to himself. How often had she played in this room with him, seen his little hands stretch out to her? If she closed her eyes, she knew she could still smell him. To reinforce the image, she walked to the bureau and opened the canisters and jars of baby shampoo and ointment that had sat unused for so long, their sweet scents bringing back memories. She sniffed one small tub of cream.

  A floorboard creaked.

  She glanced into the mirror over the bureau and saw Wyatt’s reflection as he stood in the doorway.

  Startled, she nearly dropped the tube of ointment but managed to set it softly on the shelf.

  His eyes were dark with emotion. “Don’t do this to yourself. To me. You’re only torturing yourself, you know.”

&n
bsp; “It’s not a bad thing to remember.”

  “Do you think it’s a good thing to live in the past, to hold on to false hope, to ruin your life and everyone else’s because of some ridiculous and painful conviction, this . . . this fantasy of yours that our son is somehow still alive and will come back to us?”

  “I can’t give up hope.”

  “You can’t live a lie!” He stepped forward and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Ava, please . . . quit fighting us.”

  “Us?”

  “All of us who love you, who want to help you. Please.” A muscle worked in his jaw, and he lowered his head so that his forehead touched hers. “Quit fighting me.”

  Something inside of her broke. “I don’t mean to.”

  “It hurts, I know. But we have to move on.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Of course you can. It’s hard, but you have to do it.”

  She leaned her head against his shirt, heard the steady beat of his heart and wondered if he was right. She was the one resisting the comfort he offered.

  “I have to ask this,” she said, afraid she might sound foolish, “but did you come to bed last night?” She tilted her head to look up at him. “To our room? Our bed?”

  His jaw worked. “Yes,” he admitted. “I heard you cry out, so I came in. I wondered if you’d remember.”

  She felt a sense of relief. At least she hadn’t imagined that which was so real, but still, something felt off about it. “Did we . . . ?”

  He chuckled without any humor. “No. Not really. I, uh, didn’t think it was the right time.”

  “So you just left?”

  “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “You’ve been . . . pretty stressed, and besides, last night I wasn’t even sure you knew who was with you.”

  “What?” Her heart started pounding.

  “You were dreaming. Talking in your sleep.”

  Oh, Lord, had she actually called him someone else’s name? Dern’s? Please, please no! She felt a flush of heat climb up her neck.

  “Did you see the rose?”

  “No. What rose?”

  “The one I stole from the vase in the hallway and placed under your pillow.”

  “No . . .” She shook her head, remembering how she’d patted the bed next to her, feeling for warmth.

  “Then it’s still there.” He kissed her forehead. “God, I hope we can make this work, Ava,” he said with a smile, but she heard the note of resignation in his words, as if he had already given up on the notion they could work things out. “I’ll see you later,” he said. “I’m just running into the office in Anchorville for a few hours. I should be back by midafternoon.”

  “All right,” she said, still trying to sort things out as he left. She waited until she heard the front door slam, then hurried in the direction of her room. There had been no rose in her bed. None. She would have found it.

  “Now who’s crazy?” she whispered, entering the bedroom to find Khloe straightening up, the bed made. Lying upon the neatly smoothed quilt was a single white rose, its petals barely edged in pink, like those usually kept in the hallway vase.

  “Where’d you find that?” Ava asked, motioning toward the crushed flower.

  “In the bed, that’s where! You could have warned me for Christ’s sake. I pricked myself on the damned thing.”

  She held up her right hand, and sure enough a bit of blood was blooming on her index finger. Khloe stuck the finger into her mouth, then headed for the adjoining bath. “You have Neosporin, right?” she said, her words a little unclear, as she was obviously still trying to staunch the blood flow with her lips. “And bandages?”

  “Think so.”

  Didn’t Khloe know? She’d been in that bathroom as often as Ava.

  She heard the sound of the medicine cabinet door creak open, and while Khloe rummaged around in the bathroom supplies, Ava walked closer to the bed and picked up the rose.

  “This wasn’t in here last night,” she said.

  “What? The flower?” Khloe called through the open door.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then when? Oh, damn!” She walked into the room wrapping a small Band-Aid around her finger. “Never was ambidextrous . . .” She spied Ava with the rose in hand. “Careful. Graciela’s supposed to pull off all the thorns before putting the flowers in the vase, but she never bothers, claims we should buy thornless.”

  “But the thornless variety isn’t named the Church Isle White or developed by my great-grandma.”

  “Guess not.”

  “So really, this was in the bed?” Ava asked.

  “Right under your damned pillow. Surprised you didn’t get lacerated by it. Jesus!”

  Ava glanced down at the scratch on her own finger and Khloe caught the move. “Oh. Looks like you did.”

  “I guess.” Ava wasn’t convinced.

  Khloe shook her head. “How else do you explain that?” She pointed her bandaged finger at the mark on Ava’s.

  “I can’t,” she said, and that in and of itself was disturbing.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was downstairs, where she grabbed coffee and, upon Virginia’s urging, a container of some berry-flavored yogurt and found out that Wyatt was already in town.

  “Said he’d be back before noon,” Virginia said as she took stock of the pantry and scribbled the missing contents on a notepad. “I can’t believe I’m out of chicken stock again. How can that be possible?”

  Rather than answer, Ava hurried upstairs, grabbed her laptop, and headed down to the library. With Wyatt gone, she figured she’d have some time to herself.

  Jewel-Anne usually took her breakfast in her room, then hung out there until physical therapy with Demetria in the late mornings; Jacob was off at school or hiding in his dungeon of an apartment; the staff was busy; and Ian, if he wasn’t fishing, usually had coffee in town before returning to the house. He spent a lot of time in the boathouse and the small apartment attached to it, though he actually slept at the main house in a room on the third floor, preferring “the luxury of central heating” to the drafty studio with its ancient woodstove.

  So she had some time when she wouldn’t be disturbed and could actually escape the four walls of her bedroom. Besides, the wireless Internet connection worked better down here, closer to Wyatt’s office where the modem was located.

  She spent several hours organizing her notes, eating the yogurt, drinking coffee, and adding in news stories she hadn’t previously read on the Internet until she heard sirens, distant and faint, their plaintive wails echoing across the bay. She felt a chill but ignored it and switched off her computer. As her laptop wound down, she caught sight of a picture of Noah taken only a few days after his birth. She pushed her computer aside and walked to the library shelf where she picked up the photograph. “Funny little man,” she said of the red, swaddled baby lying on the couch. Hers had been a difficult delivery, not that she remembered much of it. That blessed event—so soon after Kelvin’s death—was tucked away like so many others and probably for good reason, as her son had nearly died in the process. The months counting down to his delivery had been trying as well, and sometimes she’d been in a full-blown panic that this pregnancy, too, wouldn’t go to term. As it was, Noah was born earlier than expected, but he was healthy.

  Ava had the same kind of blurry images of the hospital and doctors trying to stay calm, of bright lights and pain, as she had of the boating accident that had taken Kelvin’s life. Those same kind of disjointed, frightening memories, but at least Noah had been born.

  She looked at the picture, felt her throat tighten, then set the picture aside and walked to the window to view the garden where the small memorial stone and bench had been placed. Then she moved through the library and down a few steps into the recreation room and around the billiard table that had stood in the center of this area for as long as Ava could remember. Her grandmother had referred to the table as “t
hat gawd-awful monstrosity” with its fading green cloth and dark oak rails.

  Through the French doors, she walked outside to the garden and that scrap of space dedicated to her son. As dry leaves, kicked around by the wind, skittered across the path, she sat on the bench and looked down at the marker. Her son wasn’t buried here, but on this cloudy, blustery day, it was the place where she felt closest to him.

  “Where are you?” she asked herself, then spied other marks in the wet earth. Large footprints, obviously belonging to a man, were visible along with the tracks from Jewel-Anne’s wheelchair.

  More often than not, when Jewel-Anne rolled herself outside, she wound her chair through these garden paths. No matter how overgrown or bumpy the path was, she would bring one of her dolls with her and talk to them as she rode through the dripping rhododendron and overgrown hydrangeas. Ava had often seen her at this very spot, staring at her son’s marker, set only a few feet from the back of the house.

  Now she rubbed her hands together against the chill of November. The holidays were fast approaching, and her insides froze a bit as she projected to the future and another lifeless season. All her life she’d looked forward to the yuletide, but after losing Noah, everything had changed. Every thing.

  She glanced out toward the bay where the whitecaps swirled and the gray waters ran far too deep.

  Why was it that everyone other than herself was content to let Noah’s memory fade, to just accept that he’d “disappeared.” They’d explained it to her, of course. There had been no ransom note, no small body had been found, very few leads—and all of those long exhausted. Even Wyatt had accepted that he would never see his son again, and that’s why he’d suggested this memorial.

  She glanced down at the rock etched with her son’s name. Everyone’s acceptance of the fact that Noah was gone frustrated the hell out of her.

  Over the rush of the wind, she heard the back door open and the whine of Jewel-Anne’s wheelchair on the ramp.

  Great. So much for time alone.

  Ava was just climbing to her feet when her cousin wheeled along the pathway to the garden. Bundled up in a thick jacket, her brunette doll wearing something similar, Jewel-Anne rounded the corner.