The Wall: A Vintage Contemporary Romance

by Thea Harrison

  “Sure, I remember,” he responded immediately. “Do you think the guy who wrote those could be your intruder?”

  “I don’t know. He would have had to fly out here to do it, but if he happened to be following me, then I suppose anything is possible. What I want you to do is to find out for me. Hire a private detective from there to check out the fellow—I think he lives somewhere in Pasadena. The letters are filed with the rest of the fan mail. It’s a good thing we’ve made a point to keep it all! Barry, I want whoever did this found out, and I don’t really care how much it costs. Do you realise how my freedom could be impaired if we don’t find out who did it? I would never know if I was safe or not!”

  A sigh wafted over the receiver. “I know, babe, I know. I’ll get someone checking on that fellow right away. In the meantime, though, couldn’t you get in touch with the local police and tell them who you really are? I think you need some protection, kiddo.”

  She smiled. “For the moment, Barry, I have protection. Don’t you worry about me. I’m not going to go to the police unless something dire happens. That has to be avoided at all costs right now. Don’t ask me to explain.” It would be, she thought, disastrous. “My friend called the police this morning and they’ve already been here to dust for fingerprints. The place was clean, so there’s no lead here. I’m afraid it’s up to you.”

  “And I’m half a continent away!” he groaned. He would be clutching at his hair, she guessed.

  “Let go of your hair and relax,” she said calmly, and grinned at his startled exclamation. “Private detectives know how to board planes, too, you know. If they happen to come out here, get a message to the house somehow and I’ll try to arrange a meeting time with them. Tell them to stick it under the garage door—I’ve got the car and the garage is empty, so there’s no reason for anyone to try to break in. We can work out something, I’m sure. I’ve got to go now, Barry. See you, and thanks, old boy.”

  She had nearly replaced the receiver when she heard distant yelling. She brought the phone curiously back to her ear. “Whoa, Sara! Don’t you want to hear about contract negotiations with the television network? I think they’re going to agree with your demands, kiddo. They’re breathing fire and stomping around right now, but I think it’s just a ritual rain dance, nothing more. Sooner or later we’re going to have ’em!”

  “That’s great, Barry,” she said warmly, not feeling half as good as she might have at the information. “I’ll get in touch with you. ’Bye!”

  She spent the rest of the time cleaning out her refrigerator, packing up all the perishable foods in the car to take back to Greg’s. When she had everything in cartons in the back, she checked once more in her bedroom to see if she had left any clothing that was undamaged, and she found stuck in the back of the closet a dress and a pair of slacks that she threw over her arm. Then, whistling cheerfully at Beowulf, who fell pantingly in beside her, she opened the front door—and shrieked at the dark shadow of the man that was standing before her, blocking out the sun.

  Strong hands gripped her as, in a panic, she tried to back up and run away. Beowulf snuffled a greeting at Greg’s feet. He pulled her close for a quick minute, then let her go. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, taking the clothes off her arm and slinging them over his. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You were a long time, and I got worried. Everything all taken care of?”

  She put a hand over her pounding heart, taking a steadying breath. “I think so. Just a minute. If I fall over in a faint, you know that I’ve had a cardiac arrest, nothing big. Just call an ambulance.”

  He smiled ruefully. “And that was after I said I was sorry! Are you ready to go?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him, nodding. He ushered her out then, and locked the door behind him. It was a blustery day, with sudden, unpredictable gusts of wind that tore right through their coats and whipped their hair into tangles. Greg opened the passenger door for her without asking, and though she raised her eyebrows at this, she slid into the seat anyway. He then climbed in and started the car, backing swiftly.

  They put the food away quickly. Sara had apples in her cheeks from the outside wind and her eyes were very bright. Greg kept looking at her, and she caught a few of his glances. Finally, laughing with embarrassment, she said, “What’s the matter, do I have birds nesting in my hair, or something?”

  He gave a silent snort and she saw his chest heave. “No. Do you want to go for a drive?”

  Her eyes lit up at the suggestion. “What a nice idea! Yes, I would, thank you.” He swatted her on the bottom.

  “Then go and comb your hair and get your coat again, little girl.” It was her turn to snort, and he was laughing when she left the room.

  Greg pulled open the door to the garage and let Sara sail on through, a few minutes later. She sank into the passenger seat of his car and ran an admiring hand across the leather upholstery. Then he was beside her, revving the engine slightly, and they were travelling down the lane and soon pulling out on a main highway. He increased the car’s speed until they were travelling at a nice steady pace, then he leaned back as if to say, “That’s it. We’re on our way,” and Sara put her head back on the headrest, relaxing.

  She was soon in a very strange state, almost surrealistic. The ribbon of the road was coming towards her continually, and threading under the car to disappear behind her. She was oddly alone and yet not, at the same time. She felt free to think her most private and closely guarded thoughts as if she were by herself, but she had none of the sense of loneliness that usually accompanied such thoughts. From time to time she glanced sideways at the strange and strangely familiar man next to her and found him silent, concentrating on the road and yet seemingly relaxed as well. She felt him, felt his presence and awareness and peace of mind, almost as if she had telepathy and was inside his mind, thinking his thoughts, feeling his emotions.

  It felt as if they were two separate manifestations of the same being. It was as if they coexisted only side by side, and she knew that he felt her presence as intensely as she felt his. She was aware of every glance he gave her as if he had reached out with his hand and touched her on the arm. She knew him intimately.

  Presently she fell asleep.

  Someone was lifting her, holding her, carrying her carefully. She stirred and, without opening her eyes, put her arms around the neck of the man she was so close to. “Mmm, hi,” she whispered into his ear, and he rubbed his cheek against hers.

  “Hi.” He deposited her on the couch in the den and gently removed her arms from his neck. “Are you hungry?”

  “No,” she murmured drowsily. “I’m sleepy. What time is it? You know, I’m always asking you that.”

  “It’s rather late. I’m going to fix us a light supper and then I think you’d better go to bed.” Greg glanced at his watch and frowned at her. Circles shadowed her eyes. She looked washed out.

  Trying to hide her yawn, she apologised, “I’m sorry I fell asleep—I just got so relaxed that I kind of drifted away. Boring, huh?”

  Greg sat beside her and took one of her hands. It was easily engulfed by his larger one, and he played with the fingers absently. “No, it wasn’t boring. I was hoping the drive would relax you and it did. Mission accomplished. What would you like for supper?”

  “I’d rather just go to bed.” Her eyelids were so heavy, she couldn’t keep them open any longer and she shut them just for a little rest. He left her curled up on the couch as he went to the kitchen to prepare a light snack of soup and salad for them both.

  Sara was in a light comfortable doze when a slight noise, a tiny shuffle, a noise barely acknowledged in her consciousness, had her heart pounding and her stomach flipping over in that terrible and familiar way. It was just like last night, and she bolted up from the couch with a cry of terror. Blundering into the hall, she grabbed at the wall for support, then Greg was crashing out of the kitchen to stare at her.

  “What happened?” he snapped, looking around and appearing to her
to be very dangerous suddenly. She didn’t consider him as a personal threat any longer, however, and she rushed to him, crying.

  “I don’t know, I was almost asleep and then I heard something and it sounded like last night—I—I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” she babbled miserably, the easy tears of exhaustion slipping down her cheeks and splashing on her sweater.

  His face gentled. “Sara, calm down. You were probably dreaming, sweetheart. Look around you, there’s no one here. See, Beowulf is calm. He doesn’t miss anything, and he’d be the first to know. Sara, it’s okay. You’re safe, do you understand me? Safe.”

  Her eyes clung to his face, needing to hear the words of reassurance and to see that look of unruffled calm. He talked to her for a few minutes more, soothingly and easily. She suddenly giggled and saw his face change. “I’m so stupid!”

  “No. Perhaps a little unsettled, but never stupid. Come and keep me company in the kitchen—I have some soup on to warm.” He perched her once again on the high stool and gave her lettuce to cut up into two serving bowls. She was soon finished with the job for her fingers were graceful and quick. Greg saw her involuntary glance at the black rectangle of glass that showed the dark autumn evening outside and, moving casually to close the curtains so that nothing showed, he started light chatter, soon having her respond in a normal fashion. They ate in the kitchen, as they had that afternoon. Greg poured her wine and she sipped with appreciation.

  “Mm—tastes like mine,” she told him.

  “It is,” she was informed complacently. He chewed a minute and swallowed, grinning at her mock outrage. “We’ll have mine tomorrow,” he soothed, reaching out and refilling his own glass. Sara snorted.

  “We’ll have to, since this was my only bottle. You know, I’m really beginning to wake up now. Greg, tell me about yourself. I know virtually nothing about you.” She was looking for his facial expression to change, to shutter up, and was ready for it when it did. The open look in his eyes was replaced with the wall. She said quickly, “Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t want to know anything that you don’t want to share with me, really! I just want to know what you like to do, what you work at for a living, what you like to eat, besides omelettes, soup and salad, and if you’re up on your tax payments to the government, that’s all.” She felt him start to relax, and she let herself smile a little. “I know one thing about you already.”

  “What’s that?” His eyes were still shadowed.

  She waved a fork that had lettuce speared on it. “You cook a mean omelette, buster, and chop an incredible onion. Such style!”

  He smiled involuntarily. “I like to cook. I like to listen to music, especially classical and rock. Jazz is a relatively new experience to me that I’m learning to enjoy more and more. Country and Western music, I can do without.”

  Sara gurgled, “Amen to that!” She wondered momentarily at his odd twisted smile at that, when they raised their wine glasses for a solemn toast. It was forgotten easily, though, as a light tinkle shivered down her spine when the glasses clinked. “What do you like to read?”

  He lounged back against the counter behind him, balancing his wine glass precariously. She watched with fascination. “Eastern poetry.”

  Her eyebrows arched delicately. “Oh, really?”

  “Don’t look that way, you unenlightened chit! It’s good stuff, very philosophical. Of course, I like a good thriller now and then, too.”

  His dark eyes sparkled at her evident amusement at that. His hair was tousled casually, lying on his collar in a mussed-up fashion, and his shirt gaped open several buttons down, showing a glimpse of the brown chest that she had seen so briefly last night. She twinkled wickedly at him, feeling a happiness course through her veins like wine. “How very erudite of you! William Goldman, I’ll bet.”

  “Yes, and Ian Fleming’s James Bond series. There’s a collection in my study, if you’re so inclined.” He nodded at her encouragingly.

  Her expression was wry. “No, thank you. I’ve had enough excitement to last me for a few weeks, I think. Tell me something else.”

  “Unfair, unfair,” she was told mildly. “You tell me something about yourself, or I’m a clam.”

  She rubbed her eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “Let me see. I’m a sucker for a man in a three-piece, navy blue pin-stripe suit. Your turn.”

  Greg raised his eyes to the ceiling and rolled them around, then wagged a finger at her. “Not good enough, missy. Try again.”

  She chuckled delightedly and reached for the wine bottle to top her glass off. “You’ll have to give me a moment. What exactly are you looking for? Do you want a deep, soul-wrenching confession?…I thought so, you horror… How’s this, when I was nine years old, I stole my mother’s car keys and had a wreck.”

  He looked immensely fascinated. “You’ve got to be kidding. No? Were you hurt?”

  “I’ve got a scar on my elbow,” she told him blandly, and rolled up her sleeve to show him. It was on her left arm and curved around the bone. “I stuck it through the side window when I hit the tree. Mother came running out of the house while I was backing up, and she was screeching like a diesel train, and her mouth was wide open. It impressed me so much I forgot to watch the rear view mirror and I ran over a fire hydrant and then into an oak tree. Bet you the tree is still bent, too.” She grinned as he roared with laughter. “Of course,” she confessed with a trace of embarrassment, “I probably would have run into the fire hydrant and the tree anyway, because I only knew how to work the car in reverse. I hadn’t learned yet that there was such a thing as a gear shift involved… Your turn.”

  Greg had to take a minute to calm down. The bottle of wine was nearly gone and he poured the rest into their glasses equally while he pondered the subject deeply. “I don’t know. Don’t throw that at me, I’m thinking! I’m thinking! Okay, here it is: in grade school I put putty in the front door locks of all the houses in my neighbourhood. Yes, seriously! I was grounded for a month, and had to write a letter of apology to everyone. My father wouldn’t let me photocopy a form letter. It took me for ever.”

  Sara concentrated on getting her breath back and wiping up the wine that she had spilled all over the table. Her face was flushed from coughing and laughing at the same time. “And you were the favourite on the block, right?”

  “Well, I had to learn to run pretty fast,” he admitted adroitly. He drained his glass and stood. “Finished with that, yet? I’ll take the glass. How about coffee and some cheese and crackers now?” At her affirmative, he pulled out the cheese from the refrigerator and the crackers from the cupboard. She watched while he sliced the cheese.

  “I’m curious, Greg. How did they know who did it? Put the stuff in the locks, I mean. Were you caught in the middle of the act?” She spooned coffee into the maker and switched the button. Her nose wrinkled at the aromatic smell of new coffee making and fresh pungent cheese, and she perched on her chair with a cracker in her mouth.

  His lips twisted wryly. “No, I wasn’t caught, I was too good for that. I opened my big mouth and confessed. I’d done it on a dare…what did you think, that I cooked up the zany idea on my own? Here, open your mouth—like that cheese? I worried myself sick for about a week or so and finally broke down and blurted the whole story out, conscience-stricken villain that I was.”

  Her eyes regarded him smilingly. “And you felt better, I bet. ’Fess up, you did, didn’t you?”

  His mouth twitched in self-mockery. “I felt worse, especially when my parents raided my piggy bank for money to pay for the locks that were ruined, but at least I started to keep my food down after meals and sleep nights.”

  The coffee was done and soon poured. They both duly sipped and savoured the hot brew, swapping stories and looking into each other’s eyes. The truth of the matter was that Sara never really tasted her coffee, and barely paid attention to the cheese and crackers she consumed. Her mind was focused on the man opposite her, drinking in every one of his mannerisms. She watch
ed his hands gesture out in emphatic thrusting movements when he got involved in a subject. She loved the understanding look in his eyes when she confessed her childhood isolation, and her loneliness when her mother died. She delighted in his laughter and she reveled in his sense of humour.

  Finally, though, she was forced to call an end to their late-night conversation when she found herself yawning more than she was talking. Her eyelids drooped and her head felt fuzzy. She was so tired that she felt not the least embarrassment or self-consciousness when Greg walked her up the stairs, his arm around her waist. It was what she had wanted anyway, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. She had stiffened up while they had sat talking, and her muscles ached badly. “I suspect,” she groaned to him, “that I might have broken something when I tripped and fell last night.” At his swift look of concern, laughter bubbled up and overflowed when she gurgled, “Maybe we’d better go to the beach and see if I really did break something!”

  He rubbed her cheek in a way that was becoming endearingly familiar to her. “You’re very, very tired, I think. I hadn’t realised that you fell last night, although I should have guessed at the amount of bruises you had when I tucked you in bed…Sara?” She lifted her head with an effort to look at him. They were at her bedroom doorway, and he reached around the wall corner to turn the light on for her. “Beowulf will sleep on the rug by your bed, and I’m just in the next room. If you feel you need to, leave your door open, and I’ll leave mine open too. Call me if you’re worried, hmm?”

  She sighed, nodding, and with a swift kiss on her lips that was quite brotherly and yet at the same time left her tingling, he was gone. She barely went through the motions of brushing her teeth, and pulled on her nightgown carelessly, crawling between the sheets in record time. She had left the door open, and she fell asleep with her hand dropped down on Beowulf’s silky head. She was not alone in the house. Just the knowledge that there was someone breathing, sleeping, caring nearby made a wealth of difference to her peace of mind. She felt secure.