About Face

by Fern Michaels

  Finding a bottle of peroxide under the cabinet, she removed the glass from her skin and rinsed her wounds. Telling herself an infection was the last thing she needed, she searched the drawers until she found an antibiotic cream. Careful not to rub the stinging cuts too hard, she gently dotted the ointment over her skin.

  Her eye caught the bottle of lotion she had left opened. As she was about to place the lid on the jar, she noticed several clumps of something at the surface of the bottle.

  With surgeonlike skill Casey took the tweezers and pulled one of the larger clotted lumps from the top of the cream. Rinsing the cream from the small object, she plucked another from the jar, then repeated her action. Not caring what kind of mess she made, Casey took the bottle of scented cream and dumped the contents in a soap holder. Just as she thought. Tiny sparkles of glass.

  Knowing it was nearly impossible for the glass to shatter and wind up in the closed jar, a new jar at that, she knew the glass had been placed in the jar. Like the picture. Someone wanted to scare her. And harm her. She could have been seriously injured. Was that the goal of her unknown enemy?

  With her cuts treated, Casey wrapped her tingling body in the thick robe. Back in her room, a feeling of unease inched its way up her back, settling in her neck. Muscles that were relaxed from the warmth of her bath were now tense.

  “You finished in there, girl?” Flora’s singsong voice filled the room as she nudged the door open with her foot. She carried a large tray loaded with the makings of what appeared to be a feast. Casey hurried to help.

  On the wall opposite the window above the gardens, Flora placed the tray on top of a small cherry table.

  Hungrier than she cared to admit and not wanting to spoil her appetite for dinner with Mr. Worthington, Casey eyed the food, her fear temporarily forgotten.

  “I think this should hold you over until dinner. Mr. Worthington likes to follow the routine used by his ancestors.” Flora poured rich chocolate from a pink, rose-patterned pot.

  Casey watched Flora fill her plate. Munching on a crisp slice of cucumber, Casey asked, “What routine?”

  “Dinner. Usually we serve at nine. Mabel provides a late snack to hold you over. If this isn’t enough, just ask. She usually has a variety of goodies.”

  Casey couldn’t imagined what dinner would be like if this was just a snack. A platter filled with fresh, raw vegetables took up half the tray. Another with croissants and a pot of butter with strawberry jam. A second plate held meats, cheeses, and warm bread. A small silver platter held three slices of pie.

  “Did you make the pecan?” Remembering Blake’s earlier teasing, she wondered if Flora hadn’t had the pie ready and waiting.

  “Yes, but don’t tell Blake. It wasn’t easy, either. Mabel rarely lets me in the kitchen; her domain, she says.” Flora sat in the chair opposite and helped herself to a croissant. Casey took one of the tempting rolls and did the same. Butter dripped from her mouth and rolled onto her chin.

  “Mmmm, I don’t think I’ve ever had anything this delicious. I’ll be the size of an elephant if I continue to eat like this.” Casey took another bite of the soft bread, savoring the rich buttery taste.

  “I doubt it. Your mother is a small woman, and so was your father. I think you need a little meat on your bones, girl. Eat another, it’ll be a while before dinner.”

  Flora stood up. Casey didn’t want her to leave. The fear she felt earlier was back. Not wanting to explain, Casey motioned for Flora to stay.

  “What exactly is your job? I thought you did the cooking.”

  “Only on Mabel’s day off. Usually something light. I organize the staff. We have the gardener, the one who thinks he’s in England, and of course Theresa and Millie come once a month. They do the heavy cleaning. Or so they say, but I often have to clean up behind the two of them. It isn’t like it used to be. Most of their time is spent trying to seduce Adam or Blake. I don’t see why John keeps them on.” Flora shook her mop of white hair.

  Casey laughed out loud. She liked the feeling. She wanted to get used to it. Flora was good medicine for her.

  “Well, I guess if Adam and Blake want to uh . . . mess around with the girls, they’ll take matters into their own hands.” Somehow, she didn’t think Blake was the type to fool around with the help, but you could never tell.

  “Blake has more class, but he does not like to tease. Adam, I don’t know about that young man. He has everything in a dress panting after him, young and old alike. If I were thirty years younger, I’d go for him myself.” Flora wiped butter from her mouth and continued.

  “Now, Mr. Blake does have his moments; he’s the only doctor in town since his father passed on. And, of course, Adam, but you know what kind of doctor he is. Not much call for him around here. He stays in Atlanta, doesn’t visit as often as he used to.”

  Not wanting to end the conversation, Casey buttered another croissant, and asked, “When do I meet Adam?”

  “He’ll be here soon. You know the two of them have been friends since they were young boys. Blake’s father was the only doctor on Sweetwater for years. He died a while back. I think Rose, the first Mrs. Worthington, was a bit overprotective of young Adam. He was in and out of Doc Hunter’s office on a weekly basis.” Flora took another bite and gulped at the hot cocoa.

  “Adam became friendly with Blake, and, as they say, ‘The rest is history.”’

  Casey was intrigued with her new family. Like a dry well, her empty mind was desperate for news, anything to fill the hollow corner where memories should have been. Would she gain her memory back? Or would life actually begin for her at twenty-eight?

  “You’ll meet him tonight,” Flora said.

  “Who?” She had been on another planet, not paying attention to the soothing banter.

  “Adam. He can’t wait to see you. Hearing so much about your case . . . uh, I mean you, I think he is anxious to meet you.”

  “And I’m anxious to meet him, too. Though I’m a bit nervous about Mother. For some reason I feel like our relationship in the past has been . . . strained. I don’t know anyone anymore. I feel so lost. I just hope we can be friends. I’m sure if Adam’s anything like Blake, he must be nice.” What had given her the idea that she had a strained relationship with her mother?

  “You should rest, Casey. With Blake and Adam coming, there’s no telling how late an evening you’ll have. I must get those trollops organized before Mr. Worthington comes down. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” As Flora left the room, a trail of her words could be heard down the length of the long hall.

  Casey nibbled at a slice of the pecan pie and decided she liked knowing Flora would come to her rescue.

  A nap sounded like a great idea even though it was her first day at home. There would be other days to take walks and explore her new surroundings. She yawned elaborately. With all the discoveries she had made, she was mentally exhausted. The bed beckoned. The moment she curled into a ball she felt as if weights were resting on her eyelids. A second after she closed her eyes, she slept.

  Casey felt the dream, the nightmare from her past coming as she drifted off. Unable to fight the images, she let go, her subconscious in total demand.

  It was dark. The feeling of being closed in was almost suffocating. She shifted around in the small space and tried to stretch out. Leaning back against the wall, with her legs out before her, she was still too big. She thought by now they should know she wouldn’t fit in the closet anymore. She also knew if she remained quiet and didn’t put up a fight, she wouldn’t have to stay in the closet very long.

  It was hot and the air was steamy-like. Kind of like when she got to take a shower and used the hot water. That was okay. But she didn’t like this kind of heat. Her throat felt tight and all closed up. She tried not to think about the air, or if it was being all sucked up. This always scared her. She feared she wouldn’t have enough air. They said she would die. She believed them. Sometimes. Sometimes she wished she would die; then maybe they wo
uld be sorry for what they did to her.

  Taking another deep breath, she felt something heavy weighing down on her thin chest. She closed her eyes. Afraid now, she was too weak to push it away. Her air was almost gone; she couldn’t breathe! Gasping, she tried to push the heavy thing from her. It wouldn’t move. It was there like before, sucking up her air. She pushed at the heavy object, kicked the closet door. Maybe they would come. She needed air. She would die!

  Panting now, her breath came in ragged gasps. She kicked and screamed; the massive form resting on top of her was too much. She squeezed her eyes tighter, wishing to be someplace else. It never worked. Her raspy voice howled like a trapped animal. That’s what she was. Trapped.

  She shoved at the form. Opening her eyes, one at a time, she stared at the thing. It was wet. Not wet like water wet, but thick, like oil. And it smelled. Eyes like those of a dead fish stared back at her.

  Seeing the silent stare above her, she remembered. A sheer, black fright took hold of her, possessing her. She gave in to the pure, raw fear.

  And screamed.

  And screamed.

  And screamed.

  Chapter 6

  Casey sprang up in the bed, drenched in sweat. Her breath came in short, uneven spurts. Recalling the horror of her nightmare caused her entire body to tremble. Her pulse pounded from the imagined fear. Or was it imagined? Not knowing frightened her.

  The claustrophobia she had experienced was certainly real. As if she were still locked in the dark corners of her dream, Casey walked over to the window and assured herself the fear was an illusion.

  The mellow sunlight cast a golden halo over the grounds. She needed the wide-open space to soothe her shattered nerves. The beauty of the grounds at Swan House, the lush green lawn weaving through a multitude of color calmed her almost immediately. Everything was so open and normal-looking.

  Rubbing her sore knuckles, she winced. The backs of her arms were tender from the pin-sized glass cuts. Casey reflected on the day’s events. Had it only been a few hours since her release from the hospital? Things were happening too fast. Unsure of anything at the moment, she walked over to the table and picked at the remains of her minimeal left by Flora.

  Should she burden Flora with the afternoon’s events? Thinking of her, she smiled. Flora was a genuine, kindhearted soul. Casey was surprised when she learned Flora had taken care of her as a child. At least she wasn’t a total stranger there. Not that her mother was a stranger to her, but Adam and Mr. Worthington were. What did she really know about these people?

  Blake seemed nice enough. Though they had only just met, she felt some sort of camaraderie existed between them. She thought he might have felt it, too.

  Anxious to meet her stepfather, she wondered what he was like. She knew Evie had married him after she was hospitalized, and they’d been an item before that. Blake told her he’d visited her once. Would he approve of her? She hoped so. And if he didn’t? That didn’t bear thinking about since she was dependent on him and her mother. Soon she would find a job and a place of her own.

  Questions. She needed answers. Patience, Casey told herself. I’ll learn soon enough.

  Tomorrow her mother would fill in the gaps for her. Then she would decide what she would do.

  Casey heard the knock on the door and almost jumped out of her skin.

  Evie smoothed the pale yellow Chanel suit before lifting a manicured hand to knock on the door of the guest room. She would give her daughter the privacy she deserved.

  Angered that her trip to Atlanta had been cut short, she knew it was going to be difficult to put on her motherly cloak, and even more difficult to wear it convincingly. It had been so long.

  She remembered the phone call.

  “Evie, she’s out,” the voice on the other end of the phone had whispered.

  “What! I thought it was next week. You said . . .”

  “I know what I said, goddamn it! I can’t keep fixing things for you, Evie.” The speaker sighed, frustration apparent.

  “Yes, I know. And I can’t continue to cater to your expensive tastes.” She slammed the phone down in the cradle.

  She hadn’t counted on Casey’s early release. Oh, it had been mentioned by Dr. Macklin. With her influence she was sure nothing would come of it. She was wrong. And she didn’t like being wrong. Evie knew what she wanted and got it. Whether by her own hand or one she had learned to master like a puppeteer, she always got her way. It wasn’t about to change. She wanted to be there to greet her daughter. She wanted to be the first one she came to when her memory returned. If her memory returned.

  She heard the footsteps hesitate on the other side of the door. Casey was still the little mouse she’d been as a child. At least that hadn’t changed. Mice needed guidance through their tunnels.

  Casey paused before opening the door. A deep sense of foreboding twisted her insides. Fear left over from her dream? I have nothing to fear, she told herself. It’s probably Blake, ready to introduce me to Adam. She smiled, glad that she had him as a friend.

  Swinging the door as wide as it would open, Casey stopped cold in her tracks.

  “Welcome home, Casey. Are you settled in?” Evie stepped inside the room, her exotic perfume wafting behind her. She pulled Casey in a light hug and kissed the air on either side of her face.

  Casey didn’t know what to say. Her mother was a stranger to her, after all. The perfectly coifed woman proceeded to walk around her room, surveying it as if it were the first time she had actually seen it.

  She watched in silence as Evie continued to inspect her surroundings like an army general. She stopped at the closet.

  Turning to Casey, she asked, “How do you like the clothes? I picked them out myself. Nothing but the best, I told them. I wasn’t sure of the size, but from the looks of you”—Evie scanned her from head to toe—“it appears I was accurate. When you’re up to it, I’ll take you to Lord & Taylor in Atlanta. We’ll make a weekend of it. From there we’ll go to Stefan’s; he’s the best stylist in Atlanta.” Evie lifted a limp strand of Casey’s hair as she said this.

  Unable to mutter a single word, Casey watched her mother. She didn’t look as though her silence bothered her. In fact, she looked like the cat who killed the canary.

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you. Blake said you were in Atlanta.”

  Evie turned so abruptly, Casey felt the air whip around her.

  “Blake says all sorts of things, Casey. In time you will learn not to listen to him. He’s trouble. Watch out for him. I’ve been lucky. You may not be. Trust me, please.”

  Blake. Trouble?

  “Why shouldn’t I trust Blake, and of course I trust you, Mother,” she said quickly.

  “Because he’s jealous of Adam and his wealth. Since day one he’s been nothing but trouble. Questioning John and Adam about everything. Still, after all these years. He doesn’t come here that often anymore, not since Adam set up his practice in Atlanta, thank God.” Evie smiled at Casey, revealing perfectly capped teeth. Mother Nature had been kind to her. Or a surgeon’s knife. Her mother could pass for forty. A petite woman, her slender figure was a perfect match for the elegant linen suit she wore. Pearls graced her delicate neckline and tiny pearl studs decorated her earlobes. Not an ounce of gray glistened in the golden cap of her flawlessly cut pageboy. Nothing about her said “Mother.”

  “I just met him. He seemed nice enough.” Not wanting to start off on the wrong foot with her mother, Casey smiled and walked over to the closet.

  “Can you help me pick out something? Flora said we dress for dinner. I haven’t . . . well, you know how long it’s been.” Casey nodded toward the rows of clothing, hoping Evie would rise to the bait. She wanted her mother to be her mother. To tell her how happy she was to have her daughter back. Tell her how much she had missed her. Tell her how much she loved her and that no matter what, she would be there for her.

  “I’d love to.” Evie shoved satin-padded hangers along the length of t
he rack. A silk, teal blouse with matching pants, a dark green sheath dress, and a pale blue skirt with a matching angora sweater were her choices. She tossed the expensive garments on the bed haphazardly, apparently unconcerned about their care.

  “You can pick from these. You’ll need to learn what to wear, Casey. We have a position to uphold in society, dear. We must dress the part. You’re twenty-eight years old. I’m not about to start babying you at this late date, but I will see to it that you have the proper guidance in what we Southerners deem as socially correct. Now, my dear, I must run. I haven’t seen John since my arrival. He’s been ill, you know. I have a feeling poor John won’t be around much longer. I’ll see you at dinner.” A brush to her cheeks and she was gone.

  A plush cream carpet under her feet could have been a bear trap. Casey couldn’t move. Surprise didn’t describe what she was feeling. Strange. Her mother was different than she remembered from her visits to the hospital.

  Casey threw the clothes in a pile and stood staring at the contents in the closet. It was a wardrobe befitting a queen. Yet, for all the care her mother had shown in picking out the expensive designs, she hadn’t shown a shred of regard for their care.

  In the bathroom Casey searched under the cabinet for the ugly, brown shift she had discarded only hours before. Suddenly, its scratchy material was silken, its drabness exquisite. This was her. Not the silken garments hanging from padded hangers. This was the Casey her mother visited in the hospital. This was the person she was, at least for now. For the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to touch the new clothes. It was betrayal. Though of what, she didn’t know.

  Evie paced the dark confines of John’s room. Flora said he was showering. He was actually going to come downstairs for dinner. Maybe she had underestimated him. At seventy-three, he’d been as spry as a forty-year-old. Until the last few months. He no longer tended his precious gardens. He stayed in his room most of the time, taking his meals in bed.