Three days. And already she was blooming again, already this place had made her happy. He'd had twenty-two years to make her happy, and he'd failed. Over and over and over, he'd failed. And Ian did it in seconds. He stared up at her. "You should have let me die." He said the words softly.
She leaned forward, pressed a warm hand to the healthy side of his face, the side that could feel the gentleness of her touch. "You know me better than that, Elliot."
"You'll go back with me again?" She didn't blink, but he saw the way her jaw tightened, the way her fingers clenched in her lap. "Of course. You are my husband. My family."
He didn't understand. This wasn't the old Agnes, wasn't really a woman he knew at all. She was so strong, so honest, so honorable, and she had the biggest heart he'd ever known. He believed that she thought of him as her family, and the belief fortified him.
Family. That's what he and Agnes were, what they'd always been. The two outcasts, together against the whole world. Only now, she had another family. He could feel it in this old house, hear the murmured voices of the people downstairs. This was her family now, and he was just a useless has-been, a part of her life that should be over but wasn't. "Agnes, you hate life in the village. I know you do."
"Hate is too strong a word. I do not hate it, nor do I hate the people."
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'Then what?"
"I simply ... die there. I cannot tell you why."
He knew he ought to release her, now, before he lost his nerve. She deserved so much better than a broken-down, scarred old man with nothing to offer. She deserved children and light and laughter, all the things he might once have given her, but now never could. It was too late for them, there were too many moments lost.
Suddenly the bedroom door opened.
And a breathtakingly beautiful woman appeared in the opening. She was a small woman, no taller than Elliot's shoulder. Strawberry blond hair lay piled in a loose coil atop her head. She paused uncertainly, her fingers resting on the doorknob. He remembered her suddenly-Ian's mother. "I-I don't mean to intrude. ..."
Agnes beamed at the woman. "Do not be absurd, Maeve. Come in." She turned to Elliot. "Maeve sat here with me the past two nights."
Maeve glided toward the bed. "Good morning, Elliot. You may remember me. I'm Maeve." Her voice was soft and sweet, like a lullaby.
He couldn't find his speaking voice.
"Selena," Maeve said, "go rest. You look like a cadaver."
"Oh, no, I should not-"
"I'll stay with Elliot," Maeve said.
Elliot felt a rush of pleasure at Agnes's response. Even here, in this wonderful old house, with Ian a few footsteps away, she chose to be with Elliot. "Go ahead," he said with a smile. "I'll be fine."
Agnes kissed his scarred cheek, then left him alone with the beautiful woman named Maeve.
He stared up at her, unable to look away. She was lovely, with her pale skin and hazel eyes, and curly red-gold hair that shone like reflected sunlight. What must she think of him, this fey, vibrant beauty? He twisted
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slightly, tried to press the scarred half of his face into the pillow.
"Now, why are you sinking down into your pillow, Elliot? You can hardly eat that way." "You don't have to stay."
At first she looked offended, and then she sighed quietly. Her shoulders rounded and her hazel eyes turned sad. "You want me to leave. I suppose Selena told you about me."
Elliot frowned. "No. I just .. . just figured you'd want to leave."
She laughed-a high, clear sound that was lighter than the winter air. Christmas bells, he thought suddenly, and wondered where such a worldly thought had come from. But it was true, her laughter reminded him of the long-forgotten sound of Christmas bells. "Then leave the figuring to someone else, Elliot. You're no good at it."
The melodious sound of her voice mesmerized him, made him forget-for just a second-that he was big and clumsy and horribly scarred. "You're beautiful," he whispered, stunned to hear the thought slip from his lips. Immediately he was ashamed.
A smile tugged on her mouth. "Really?" She brought a pale hand to her chest. "No one has told me that in years."
He couldn't imagine such a thing. "Me, either," he said with a self-deprecating laugh.
She stared down at him, her gaze steady and frank. "But you're a very good-looking man."
He frowned. Was she making fun of him? He couldn't tell. Those hazel eyes were so honest-looking. "You ... you aren't disgusted by my scar?"
She laughed again, but the sound was softer this time, had a sad edge. "You haven't seen my scar, Elliot. And believe me, it makes that little mark on your face seem like nothing."
"Little mark on my face?"
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She smiled. "You know, in some cultures-or is it fiction? I can't recall-anyway, somewhere people think scars are badges of honor on a worthy soul. I wouldn't mind a little physical scar myself. It would be better than my problem."
He shouldn't ask so personal a question, but her remark seemed to invite such familiarity. Slowly, feeling as if he were inching down a thin, thin branch that could snap at any second, he asked, "What's your problem?"
"I'm ... mad."
"You mean angry?"
"No. Mad, like tomorrow I might not recognize you. Any second now, I could begin a debate with the bedpost or eat the paint. Mad. Insane." She tried to smile.
He could see the sadness in her eyes, and the shame. Two emotions he recognized well. "And the day after that?"
"The day after, I could be as sane as you are. Or I could believe I'm Sigmund Freud himself. There's no telling." She gave a trilling, brittle laugh. "Of course, you can ignore me on those days. It won't hurt my feelings a bit."
"Don't."
She drew in a sharp breath. "What do you mean?"
"I've lived with this face for forty-nine of my fifty-six years, Maeve. I know you get used to people rejecting you. You come to expect it. But it never stops hurting. You spend your whole life looking for someone-just one person-who sees past the scar."
Tears filled her eyes. Their gazes met, and in that one unexpected moment, he saw that they understood each other, understood and accepted. It had never happened to him before; never had he shared his pain with another with such honesty, such blatant weakness. And now that he had, he felt an almost magical sense of
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awe. As if sharing the horror diminished it. Or perhaps two people simply carried the burden more easily than one.
Chapter Twenty-eight
There was laughter coming from somewhere,
Elliot peeled back the warm, heavy blanket and
gently eased to a sit. The pain in his shoulder was still
there, a low, thudding drone, but it was bearable now.
The sharp, biting agony of the past few days was gone.
He flipped back the coverlet and got awkwardly to his feet. The thick flannel nightshirt he'd been given strained across his chest and pinched his arms as he walked to the window.
Outside, it was a beautiful early winter morning. Sunlight pierced a high layer of haze and glittered across the steel gray sea. A layer of sparkling snow dusted everything.
Directly in front of the house, on a large patch of scuffed snow, people clad in heavy cloaks and hats and mittens played croquet. He recognized the players- Agnes, Johann, Andrew, and the woman they called the queen. Another old woman stood huddled in a thicket of trees, gesturing wildly to no one. In one corner, by herself, Lara sat on a tree stump, playing with a pair of rag dolls. And Maeve danced and swooped and somersaulted, a stuffed raccoon clutched in her arms. Only Ian was missing.
The chattering sound of their talk drifted upward, peppered now and again with laughter.
Elliot drew away from the window before he was 356
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seen. With a sigh, he leaned back against the cold wall and tried not to dwell on the scene below.
; He'd searched for a place like this all of his life. Once, years ago, he'd thought he'd found it in the Believers, but now, as he stood here amidst the faraway laughter, the truth was painfully obvious. A family was not a community of people who believed in a common cause; it was not raising children by groups or sleeping in sterile rooms with members of your own sex. It wasn't orderly and tidy and self-contained.
A family was what he saw on the snow-covered lawn. A big, messy, laughing group of people who cared for each other.
The thought hurt, so he pushed it away. He walked stiffly to the heavy oak armoire and opened the carved, mirrored doors. Inside, his clothes hung from brass hooks. He struggled out of the too tight nightshirt and slipped on his old woolen pants and linen shirt. By the time he was finished, he was winded and his chest ached.
He sat down until the pain passed, then he got to his feet and walked slowly to the door. There was something he needed to do.
Ian stood at the open parlor window, watching the party on his front lawn, listening to the laughter. Every nuance of sound, every giggle or cry or yowl of mock hurt, was a knife that drove into him. He wanted to be out there with them, pretending everything was normal, but how could he? How could he look at Selena and feel anything but a yawning despair?
Behind him, the door creaked open. Footsteps shuffled slowly inside. There was a pause, then slowly, a masculine voice said, "Dr. Carrick?"
Ian's breath caught. A sharp pain lodged in his chest. He schooled his face into an impassive mask and slowly turned around. Elliot stood in the doorway, his head
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hung low, his suit wrinkled and still stained with old blood. He looked ancient, beaten.
Good, thought Ian with a surge of bitterness, but even as he felt the emotion, he lost it. Elliot wasn't triumphant or boasting or cocky. He was just an old man who'd loved a special woman for a very long time.
Ian walked to the sterling silver tea and coffee set and poured himself a steaming cup of coffee. "You're up," he said into the quiet, "How do you feel?"
"Alive."
Ian nodded. It felt as if he should say something, do something, but he couldn't think of what it could be. Short of groveling before the old man, or killing him, Ian had no recourse. "Your wound is healing nicely."
"It feels better. Thank you."
"Hmmm," Ian said with a nod. Then he waited.
They stared at each other. The silence increased, felt uncomfortable.
Finally Elliot took a shambling, limping step forward. "I came down to thank you for saving my life."
"I'm a doctor."
He took another step, and looked up at Ian. "Why did you do it?"
Ian took a sip of coffee before answering. "I didn't
want to."
"I don't suppose you did."
Ian took another long drink of his coffee, peering at Elliot over the gilt-edged rim of his cup. "There's a long answer, but I won't bore you with it. The short answer is, I saved you because she wanted me to."
"But you knew that if I lived-"
"I knew." Ian set down his cup of coffee and moved toward Elliot, searching the old man's face, trying to find .. . Hell, he didn't know what he was searching for, what he could find that could make a difference. Go to him, Agnes. The words of the vision came back to Ian suddenly and he wondered what they meant. "She says you are a good man," he said softly.
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Elliot released his breath in a heavy sigh. "I wish that were true."
Ian stared deep into the man's eyes and slowly put out his hand.
Elliot didn't look away as he reached out, clasped Ian's hand in his. "Thank you again for saving my life, Ian."
Ian winced. His hand caught fire, the headache burst behind his eyes. Images rammed into his mind with the force of a blow. Selena standing in a room full of people, separated and alone . .. a closed door, a single bed . . . And the thoughts: She loves you, Ian, and I love her.
Ian yanked his hand back. For a second he felt nauseated by the headache, and then gradually it passed. He tried to smile at Elliot, but couldn't quite manage it. "Did Selena tell you about my .. . gift?"
"No."
It hurt, that simple little denial. He wanted somehow to be the focal point of their conversation, wanted his name to batter Elliot's consciousness the way Elliot's battered his.
Again the silence fell, awkward, heavy.
Finally Elliot spoke. "I guess we'll leave tomorrow."
Ian flinched at the unexpected words. No, he thought. No. I'm not ready. . ..
But he'd never be ready, and besides, his feelings didn't matter at all.
"Tomorrow," he said dully, wishing there were something he could say, some way to change what couldn't be changed.
Elliot looked up, snagged Ian's gaze for a second, then looked away quickly. "I think I'll go rest again."
"Could you . . . bring her back sometime?" The words were out before Ian could stop them. He looked at Elliot's pale, frozen face and knew that he shouldn't have spoken, shouldn't have asked the pathetic question.
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"I don't think I could."
Ian wished he had the strength to nod. To shore up and act like a man even though his insides were dissolving. But he didn't. It took everything he had inside him to just stand still and not scream. At last he said all that he could say, and it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. "Be good to her."
Elliot nodded in response, and then he left the room.
Selena checked in on Elliot around one o'clock and found that he was still sleeping. She pressed a quick kiss on his cheek and left him. Back in her own room, she stripped out of her soggy woolen dress and stockings and re-dressed in a pair of Andrew's black woolen pants and white linen shirt. She was just about to go see Ian when someone knocked on her door.
"Come in," she said.
The door opened and Maeve stood in the opening, wearing a pale mint green muslin dress and heavy black cape. "Follow me," she said with a grin.
Selena slipped her hand in Maeve's. "Where are we going?"
"Close your eyes."
Laughing, Selena did as she was told, and Maeve wrapped a heavy strip of black silk across her eyes, tying it tightly. Then Maeve led Selena down the hallway and down the stairs.
They came to a stop. "Maeve-"
"Surprise!" voices yelled out.
Maeve whipped off the blindfold, and Selena found herself standing in the parlor, with her family all around her. Dozens of apples lay scattered about the room, on the windowsills, the furniture, along the floorboards. Each apple held a single candle, their flames a hundred bright dots of gold against the tapestried walls. The pungent smell of apples and smoke filled the room.
All were dressed in their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. Lara wore a white lace gown with a big red
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velvet bow at her waist, the queen a regal purple satin gown, and Edith's pudgy body was wedged into a frothy confection of red and green silk. Ian and Johann and Andrew all wore black pants and coats with stark white shirts.
"Oh, my . . ." Selena said, drinking in the sight of them, memorizing this moment. Every nuance, every sound, every sight.
Ian strode across the room, held his bent arm out to her. "Milady, we would like to invite you to sup with us."
She gazed up at him. He looked heartbreakingly handsome in the evening clothes, his gold hair brushing against the black wool, his flame blue eyes sparkling. Her heart picked up its beat. "What are we doing, Ian?" He shook his head, and she saw the flash of sadness that darkened his eyes. Then it was gone. "Today is not a time for questions or sadness."
She understood suddenly. "Tomorrow," she whispered.
He nodded.
She slipped her arm through his and clung to him, pressing her cheek against the soft wool of his coat. "Yes," she whispered. "Make me forget tomorrow."
Johann picked up a golden wicker picnic basket, Lara swept up a handful of toys, Andrew picked up a violin, and Maeve grabb
ed a jug of wine. All talking at once, they crowded out of the room and walked across the crisp, snow-covered lawn, their feet crunching through the thick layer of frost on top.
They got halfway across the lawn and Selena stopped dead. She spun around and looked at Andrew, realizing for the first time that he was outside. In broad daylight. He grinned at her. "Hi, Selena." She pulled away from Ian and ran for Andrew, throwing her arms around him, knocking him to the ground in her exuberance.
Snow fluttered up around them, landed in tiny white
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flakes on Andrew's jet black lashes and melted into silvery droplets of water. "I am so proud of you," she whispered.
Tears glazed his eyes. "Thanks, Selena."
After that moment, the day took on a magical quality. Selena and Andrew got back to their feet and held hands as she walked back to Ian.
Without a word, Andrew let go of her and rushed on ahead, laughing and chattering with the crowd as they melted into the darkness of the forest.
Selena stood at Ian's side, staring up at him, loving him more in that instant than she'd ever thought possible. "Ian-God," she breathed, knowing she didn't have to say more.
Smiling, he slipped his arm around her and drew her close. Talking quietly, they followed the family through the forest and out to the ledge of the cliffs. Below, the sea was a crashing white foam against the gray granite.
They spent the day together, clustered on a soggy woolen blanket, throwing rocks into the sea, playing catch, eating the cold, succulent food that Edith had prepared.
Gradually the pale sun sank into the distant gray haze that clung to the horizon. The keening cry of the seagulls gave way to the moaning whimper of the evening wind. A shadowy comma of moon appeared in the distance.
One by one, the crowd dispersed. Johann got cold and went inside for a straight shot of bourbon; Lara and Edith and the queen went back to get warm; Maeve went back to see Elliot; and Andrew just disappeared without a word.
Selena lay on the wet, icy blanket, snuggled close to Ian. They were both freezing cold, but neither one of them wanted to leave. The word tomorrow kept sneaking back, winding itself through words unspoken, thoughts unvoiced. With each passing moment it felt heavier, closer.
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She stared up at the sky, listening to the squawking chatter of the shore birds and the whispering cant of the breeze. The sea was a steady thrumming that washed across the rocks. "It was a wonderful day," she said. "Thank you."
"He says he's taking you home tomorrow," Ian said. Home. For the first time, Selena heard that single word as something cold and hard and just a little frightening. So different from the way it should be. Home. It should be light and love and warmth. She glanced at Ian, saw her pain reflected in his eyes and knew that she should say something to console him. But there was nothing.
"I can't think of a way to stop him," Ian said at last into the growing silence. "The fever's gone, the infection is nearly gone. Any doctor could finish the job." Selena closed her eyes. Despair washed through her, colder than the winter air. A sudden, desperate longing came with it.
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