Dearly Beloved

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  This must be what people mean when they talk about heartache, she realizes.

  “Laura?” Sandy says loudly.

  Jennie blinks. “Yeah?”

  “You’re on another planet, aren’t you? I was talking to you and you were looking right through me.”

  “Oh, I, uh—I’m sorry.” Jennie is about to stand up and excuse herself when Jasper Hammel suddenly shows up carrying a cherrywood tray. He has a way of doing that—appearing with no warning.

  “All right, ladies, here we are. Coffee and a rich dessert—just the thing for a blustery February night.”

  “I think I’ll pass,” Liza says, rising. “I’m pretty exhausted.”

  But her sharp green eyes don’t look sleepy. She seems edgy—as edgy as Jennie feels.

  “Oh, come on, now. . . . You have to taste my torte,” Jasper informs Liza firmly, putting a porcelain pedestal mug into her hand and motioning for her to sit down again.

  She does; and once again, her eyes collide with Jennie’s. Her expression is wary. Jennie instinctively realizes that Liza, too, is uneasy about this place and this man.

  Sandy, on the other hand seems oblivious. She happily accepts a mug and a plate and tells Jasper that the torte looks “yummy.”

  Liza catches Jennie’s gaze again when Sandy says it, and this time, she rolls her eyes.

  Jennie quickly looks away. Sandy might be a little on the immature side, but she’s a nice person.

  Liza, on the other hand, is something of a bitch, and Jennie isn’t particularly eager to align herself with her.

  Again, she wishes she were back at home in Boston. She would give anything to have Keegan’s arms around her right now.

  Because Keegan has always made her feel safe.

  And right now, for some reason she can’t pinpoint, even as she sits in this quaint, quiet parlor, she feels vaguely threatened.

  By what, she doesn’t know.

  But it’s real; something dark and terrible—as dark and terrible as the nightmare that changed her life forever on that bloody day three years ago.

  Two floors above the parlor, on the top floor of the inn, in an ancient, upholstered rocking chair, he sits and rocks and waits.

  At one time, the attic room must have been servants’ quarters for the inn’s summer help. A deep, stained white porcelain sink and an ancient gas stove are tucked into an alcove. In another corner, behind a warped wooden door, there’s a tiny bathroom with a steep, sloping ceiling. There’s no shower, only a chipped claw foot bathtub. And the toilet no longer flushes on its own; he has to lift the tank, reach into the clammy water, and pull the chain.

  He thinks of the enormous master bedroom suite back at his estate on Long Island’s north shore. It has a king-sized bed, a fireplace, and an adjoining Jacuzzi in a glass solarium with a sweeping view of the sound. It also has his-and-hers dressing rooms, each with its own private attached bathroom.

  His dressing room and bathroom are cluttered with his belongings.

  The other one—the one he’d intended for his bride—is empty.

  It always has been.

  Sighing, he flips to the first page of the photo album in his lap. It’s a special album, one that only has room for a single eight-by-ten picture on each page.

  A wedding album, actually—bound in white leather, its cover stamped in gold with the words, “Our Wedding Memories.”

  This first page belongs to Sandy. There’s an empty slot, waiting for the photograph he’ll place there.

  He has already labeled the oval opening with an ivory place card that has a raised rectangular border, the kind of card you find on the tables at a wedding reception.

  On it, he has meticulously lettered her name in calligraphy, using a special pen.

  He remembers the day he went to the art supply store to buy that pen.

  The clerk, a pretty blond in her teens, had smiled pleasantly at him and said, “Will that be all, sir? You don’t need a bottle of ink to go with it?”

  He’d smiled back and said, “No, thank you. I have plenty of ink at home.”

  It was a lie, of course.

  He wasn’t planning on using ink at all.

  Instead, he’d used his own blood.

  It’s really quite lovely, he decides, studying the lettering on the card below the empty photo slot. Over the past few months, the blood has faded to a soft, brownish-maroon color that complements the rich ivory surface of the place card. Very elegant.

  But this card isn’t permanent, of course.

  He’ll replace it, very soon, with an exact replica.

  Except that this time, the blood he’ll use to letter Sandy Cavelli’s name will be her own.

  “Sandy?” Jasper Hammel asks. “Would you like another slice of the torte?”

  “I really shouldn’t,” she says. After all, both Liza and Laura refused, and neither of them has even finished their first servings.

  But she can’t help glancing at the rich chocolate concoction that’s still left on the doily-covered plate Jasper is offering.

  “Oh, go ahead,” the man says, stepping closer to her and practically holding the torte under her nose. “Just a sliver?”

  “All right,” she relents, because she’s never been able to resist anything chocolate.

  I’ll do fifty sit-ups before bed tonight, she promises herself as she holds up her dish to let Jasper serve her.

  He spoons on the fresh raspberries and a generous dollop of whipped cream.

  A hundred sit-ups, Sandy amends, then stifles a yawn behind her hand. If I can stay awake long enough.

  Suddenly, she can’t wait to crawl into bed. Must be all this fresh sea air.

  As Jasper discreetly heads back toward the kitchen with the torte, Sandy picks up her fork again and tries to return her attention to the conversation she and Laura had been having. Actually, she had been doing most of the talking, but she suddenly can’t remember what about.

  Oh, yes. She had been telling Laura about her brothers.

  “Anyway,” she says, cutting off a piece of the torte and raising it to her lips, “Danny is my youngest brother. He’s the only one who’s not in the plumbing and heating business with my dad. He’s a gym teacher at St. Agnes High.”

  Laura nods.

  Sandy swallows the bite of torte, then yawns again. “Oh, gosh, excuse me,” she says. “I’m really tired.”

  “So am I.” Liza stands and places her mug and the delicate plate containing her half-eaten cake on a polished table beside her chair. “I’m going up to bed. Good night.”

  “Night,” Laura murmurs.

  “Good night. See you tomorrow,” Sandy calls after Liza, who doesn’t even turn around.

  “She’s not very nice, is she?” Sandy whispers to Laura when she’s sure Liza is out of earshot.

  Laura shrugs and looks uncomfortable.

  “I mean, it’s not that I don’t like her,” Sandy lies. “It’s just that she doesn’t seem very friendly. But then, maybe she’s just shy,” she adds hastily. After all, it isn’t right to talk about someone behind her back—especially when the person you’re talking about, and the person you’re talking to, are both virtual strangers.

  “Maybe she is shy,” Laura agrees. She stretches and glances at the watch on her wrist. “I should get to bed, too. It’s getting late.”

  “How late is it?”

  “Almost ten-thirty.”

  “Uh-oh.” Sandy remembers something.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I forgot to call my parents. They would have gotten home at a quarter to ten—they work bingo at the church hall every Friday night—and I promised I’d call and let them know I’d arrived safely. Jasper?” she calls, hearing the man’s footsteps approaching from the kitchen again.

  “Yes?” He appears in the doorway.

  “Is there a telephone I can use?” When he seems to hesitate, she adds, “I’ll call collect.”

  “Of course,” he says. “There’s a p
hone in the hall, behind the check-in desk.”

  Sandy gulps down the rest of her dessert in a single bite and stands up, brushing the crumbs off her lap. “Thanks. I’ll just—”

  “I’ll show you where it is,” Jasper says, moving toward the hall. “Right this way.”

  Both Sandy and Laura follow him out of the parlor.

  In the front hall, Laura yawns and says, “I’m going up to bed. Good night.”

  “Good night,” Sandy and Jasper answer in unison.

  Sandy makes a move toward the desk and the telephone, but suddenly Jasper is standing over it, lifting the receiver and asking her what the number is.

  “I can dial it,” she says. “I’ll call collect.”

  “That’s fine.” He makes no move to hand her the phone or step aside so that she can walk behind the desk.

  Sandy shrugs and recites her parents’ telephone number, wondering if it’s her imagination or if Jasper suddenly seems even more nervous than usual.

  He must think I’m not really going to call collect, she decides. Maybe other guests at the inn have used the phone and rung up major long distance phone bills.

  “All set, here you are.” Jasper hands the receiver to Sandy.

  As she speaks to the operator, he steps away, but remains behind the desk, straightening an already neatly stacked pile of papers.

  He hovers there the entire minute or so that she talks to her mother, making her feel self-conscious. Actually, it seems somewhat rude, the way the man doesn’t allow her to have a private conversation.

  Maybe he just doesn’t know any better.

  “Make sure that you’re careful, Sandy,” her mother says, before they hang up.

  “Careful of what?”

  “Everything. After all, you never know.”

  Sandy sighs. “I’m always careful, Ma. You worry too much,” she adds, watching Jasper Hammel carefully flick a nonexistent speck of dust off the polished surface of the desk.

  He doesn’t venture out of the attic room until well after midnight, when the house is silent.

  Outside, the wind has picked up, blowing in off the water to rattle the windows. The rain has turned to sleet, and he wonders, as he creeps down the stairs, whether the storm will become a full-blown nor’easter.

  That would be perfect.

  Tide Island is practically deserted at this time of year anyway, but nasty weather would virtually guarantee that no one will disturb him as he carries out his plans.

  He stops at the bottom of the stairs. Behind this first door, he knows, is Laura Towne. She will have locked herself in from the other side, no doubt feeling secure.

  He licks his lips.

  All he has to do is use his master key to slip into the room.

  He pictures her the way he last saw her and wonders whether time has altered her beauty.

  Is she asleep now, on the other side of this wall?

  Of course she is, he reminds himself. Thanks to the sedative she’d unknowingly ingested, masked by the strong flavors of chocolate and raspberries.

  He wants desperately to open the door and see her. It’s been so very long, and there have been many nights when he has ached for her. The knowledge that she’s here, that she’s once again under his roof, fills him with tantalizing urges.

  But this time, he’s the one in control.

  Of himself.

  And, though she doesn’t know it, in control of Laura.

  And the others, as well.

  Liza Danning.

  Sandy Cavelli.

  He sighs. Then he reaches into his pocket, removing a single key. Carefully, he slips it into the top lock, the one that only works from the outside.

  He turns it and listens for the click that means Laura Towne is locked into the beautiful room with the lilac-sprigged wallpaper that exactly matches the shade of her eyes.

  I’ll be back, he promises her silently. But not tonight.

  The next stop along the hallway is Liza Danning’s room, where he swiftly but stealthily locks her door, too, from the outside, then moves on.

  Anticipation is building within him now.

  In front of the last door, he again brandishes the key. But instead of putting it into the top lock, he inserts it into the bottom one—the one that works from both sides.

  And instead of locking Sandy Cavelli into her room, he ever so quietly turns the key, opens the door, and slips over the threshold.

  He pauses just inside the shadowy room until he hears the slow, rhythmic sound of her breathing.

  Closing the door quietly behind him, he tucks the key back into his pocket and moves cautiously across the wooden floor until he’s standing over the bed.

  She’s lying on her side, her brown hair tousled on the white linen pillowcase. Her mouth is slightly open, and he fights the urge to run a gentle finger over those full lips. She should be sound asleep, thanks to the torte, but he doesn’t want to take any chances.

  So he simply looks at her.

  And as he looks, his fingers slip down his belly to the top button of his trousers. He unfastens it, then slowly begins to edge the zipper down.

  Her face, he notes, is much rounder than it used to be. And though she’s wearing a long-sleeved flannel nightgown, he can tell that the arm that’s thrown over her head is chubby.

  It doesn’t matter to him.

  Struggling to remain in control, he gingerly extends his left hand and tentatively pulls the bedspread and sheet away from Sandy’s body. He lowers them to her waist, then pauses to make sure she isn’t stirring. When he’s satisfied that she’s still deeply asleep, he continues pulling the bedding down until her legs, too, are exposed.

  The nightgown is bunched around her hips, revealing white thighs that are full and dimpled. Holding his breath, he moves his left hand to grasp the flannel hem and raise it, past her high-waisted white cotton underwear and the soft rolls of her belly to her heavy, bare breasts that sag almost to her navel.

  Still, she doesn’t move, and he desperately longs to touch her.

  But he can’t.

  Not yet.

  Not tonight.

  His left hand curls into a tight fist and he forces it to fall at his side.

  The fingers of his right hand probe past his open fly and fumble in the layers of his Brooks Brothers boxer shorts until they close over his own hot, hard flesh.

  Staring at Sandy Cavelli’s near-naked body in the bed he strokes himself, lightly at first so that his skin tingles all over.

  His movements become more rapid, more urgent as he nears release, and he bites his lower lip to keep from moaning.

  He closes his eyes.

  Images flash in his mind.

  Past, present, future . . .

  Sandy as she had looked at thirteen, when he had known her—all sweet and awkward and willing to please . . .

  Sandy as she is now, sleeping before him, blissfully unaware of his presence . . .

  And Sandy as she will be tomorrow—her big brown eyes wide with terror, her full lips quivering as she begs him to let her go, her plump body clad in the pure white wedding dress he’s had custom-made for her . . .

  The dress that, after tomorrow, will be stained with her blood.

  Chapter 3

  Overcome by stark, black terror, Jennie runs for her life.

  Someone is chasing her through the Colonial Mall in Boston—someone she can’t see or hear, yet she knows he’s there, closing in behind her. The wide corridors are eerily dark and deserted, silent except for the echo of her pounding footsteps and desperate panting.

  She’s looking for someplace to hide, for an open shop where she can duck behind the clothing racks or underneath the cashier’s counter. But every store she passes is closed, the security gates lowered and padlocked.

  Panicked, Jennie pushes on, dogged by the knowledge that her time is running out.

  He’s going to get me, she tells herself frantically. There’s no escape.

  Suddenly, just as sh
e feels him looming behind her, just as clammy fingers grab her throat, the air is pierced by a shrill ringing sound.

  Jennie sits straight up in bed, gasping and looking around. She instinctively reaches for her travel alarm clock on the nightstand and pushes the button on top to still the jangling bell.

  Where am I?

  She blinks and gazes from the lilac-sprigged wallpaper to the red-brick fireplace to the lace-curtained window that reveals only rain-splattered glass and a patch of gray sky.

  Tide Island. The inn.

  She takes a deep breath and releases it, then runs a hand through her tangled hair. Groggily, she struggles to clear the fog in her brain and take hold of her senses.

  I’m safe. It was only a dream.

  Not a dream, she amends—a nightmare.

  And this isn’t the first time she’s had it. For three years, the same familiar, terrible images have haunted her sleep.

  Never, in the past, has her invisible predator caught her.

  This time, though, is different. This time, she felt his evil touch.

  She shivers at the memory of his cold skin against hers, even as she reminds herself that it wasn’t real.

  He can’t get you. He’s dead.

  Always before, that awareness has comforted her.

  This time, even though she knows it was just a nightmare and she knows the person who triggered it can no longer harm her, Jennie finds herself feeling distinctly uneasy . . .

  And uncertain.

  This time, she can’t help but wonder about the person who was chasing her through the Colonial Mall.

  You know who it was. It’s always him.

  Or is it?

  In her whole life, with all its hardship, only one person has ever put her in mortal danger. Only one person, in a few chilling, mercifully fleeting moments, ever held the power to shatter her world—and did.

  But he’s gone. She saw him take his own life in a blast from the same gun that had demolished everything Jennie held dear. She saw his crumpled lifeless body with her own eyes.

  So why can’t Jennie shake the feeling that she’s suddenly in danger again? And that this time, the threat is more ominous, more deadly, than before?