On Blue Falls Pond

by Susan Crandall

  His fingers brushed the base of her neck when he picked up a handful of hair. She gave an involuntary shiver.

  “Cold?” His voice was low, as if in the muted light he was afraid to speak too loudly.

  “N—” She couldn’t get her own vocal cords to produce more than a whisper. She cleared her throat. “No.”

  He combed gently through the tangles at the ends, then worked his way toward the top of her head, section by section. In the silence, Glory concentrated on the sound of the rain pelting against the windows, but soon became too aware of the sound of his breathing right behind her.

  She needed to say something, but the only thing on her mind was unease and embarrassment. It humiliated her to no end that she was continually being “rescued” by this man. And now, here he was saddled with her for the night—thrown out of his own bed. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  His hands paused in their work. He said, with laughter in his voice, “Ah, you’re finally going to give me that other apology—the one you refused me when you got your knickers in a twist the other day.”

  He sounded so smug that she turned her head to confront him, all thoughts of apology now gone. The comb caught in her hair and pulled fiercely. She took it from his hand and shook it in his face. “I did not get my knickers in a twist. I just reconsidered . . . as I am now.” She paused. “And, FYI, that wasn’t what I was going to say.”

  He finger-combed her hair, gently lifting it and letting it fall as he did. “What were you going to say?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening,” she said stiffly.

  He burst out laughing. “My, my, aren’t we formal.”

  She turned to look at him again, the strain in her sore muscles complaining as she did. “You’re stuck with me because of the storm . . . I should have let you leave me at the hospital. It was selfish of me and—I’m sorry.”

  His gaze held hers and for a long time, she thought he wasn’t going to say anything. How much more awkward could things get?

  “To tell you the truth, I’m glad for the company.” He said it so seriously that she thought he might just be as lonely as she’d been feeling lately.

  After a moment, she handed him the comb. “Then finish my hair.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Once her hair was tangle-free, he gave her the ointment to put on her lip.

  “Your movements are getting stiff,” he said as he put the cap back on the tube. “Let me massage your shoulders a bit.”

  She gave him a wary eye.

  “It’s not a come-on. I’d put you on a heating pad if we had power.”

  The instant he set his hands on her shoulders, it felt so good that she wanted to cry.

  The lantern had grown steadily dimmer over the past few minutes. It finally gave out. Even the lightning had passed, so they were plunged into darkness entirely. Glory tensed, waiting for the vertigo to return.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve just been so dizzy when I can’t see.”

  “Not uncommon after an accident like yours. I don’t have another battery.” He started to get up. “Maybe there’ll be enough juice left in the flashlight—”

  She put a hand on his wrist. “No. Just stay with me.” She paused. “When you’re touching me, it’s not so bad.”

  He sighed and moved his hands down her upper arms, pulling her against his chest as he leaned back against the headboard.

  “When the power comes back on I’ll feed you,” he said.

  She moaned. “I really couldn’t eat anything.”

  When he exhaled she felt his breath on the top of her head. “All right, then. Try to sleep.”

  She lay quietly for a few minutes, her back against his chest, riding on the rise and fall of his breathing. Maybe it was the sense of intimacy brought on by being so close in the dark that loosened her tongue when she said, “The other day, in the garden at Granny’s. I was going to apologize for behaving so abominably when you came to the hospital the night of the fire. You were kind and considerate, and I was—”

  “In shock,” he finished for her. “There’s no need for an apology.”

  Granny had said he had come every day, but never tried to see her face-to-face again. “Do you follow all of the people you rescue to the hospital?”

  “To be perfectly honest, there haven’t been that many. We’ve been lucky in Dawson.”

  She gauged that evasive answer, then found herself unable to contain her curiosity. Perhaps she was grasping at something that wasn’t there. “But I’m not the only one to go to the hospital. There must have been accidents . . .”

  He drew a deep breath. “No, Glory, I don’t normally go to the hospital.”

  She nearly pressed further, but wasn’t sure she was ready to know more than that, not tonight while she was feeling the security of his body next to hers, not while she was in his bed.

  Chapter Seven

  “GLORY.” THE VOICE called from a great distance yet brushed her ear as if a breath away.

  “Glory.” A hand grasped her shoulder. “You need to wake up.”

  She drew in a breath that told her she’d been drooling in her sleep and struggled to lift her eyelids. She shifted slightly, and said, “’Kay.” Her eyes drifted closed.

  “You have to wake up. Come on, just for a couple of minutes.”

  This time she roused herself to her surroundings. She blinked and breathed deeply, trying to make sense of where she was. Eric’s bed.

  The rest of her world shifted into place. It was storming. She’d wrecked her car. Her head throbbed. Every inch of her ached like a kicked puppy.

  She wished she was back asleep.

  The night beyond the window remained inky black; the streetlights were still out. The wind sounded like a beast battering against the glass.

  When Eric spoke again, she felt the reverberation of his voice against her back. “How’s your head?” He rested his hand gently on her crown.

  “Oh, my gosh.” She sat up so quickly the bed momentarily felt like the deck of a pitching ship. “I’ve been squashing you against the headboard! I’m sorry.” He’d been trapped in a half-sitting position for hours while she’d leaned against his chest as she slept.

  “Don’t apologize.” There was something just a little haunting in his quiet voice—some hint that said perhaps it hadn’t been a hardship.

  She looked at him curiously for a moment. It was difficult to make out the finer nuances of his expression in the darkness.

  She couldn’t deny there was something about him that drew her to him. But he was a rescuer by both nature and profession; she shouldn’t take his concern as personal interest. The cold truth was: The very reason she was tempted to reveal her inner self to him was the same reason she held back—they had shared one terrible, tragic night, and it bound them together in a tangible, yet inexplicable way. Was there any way for them to connect without that bridge of tragedy?

  She decided not to respond to the tone. “Has it been two hours already?”

  “Four.” He pushed himself up straighter and rubbed his neck. “You don’t remember me waking you two hours ago?”

  “No. Does that mean I have a concussion?”

  “It means you were exhausted.”

  “And you served as my mattress all this time?”

  “I like to think of myself as a human heating pad.”

  She cringed. “I can’t believe I was so out; you should have just thrown me off and gotten up.”

  “I tried . . . once.”

  “Oh, God.” She covered her eyes in shame. “What did I do?”

  “Let’s just say there was whimpering,” he said lightly; she could make out a grin on his face. Before she could say anything else, he changed the subject. “Are you starving?”

  She shook her head. “Stomach’s still a little rocky. But you should go ahead and eat. What time is it?”

  He lifted his wrist to look at the glowing hands of his watch. “Jus
t a little after one.”

  “I’m so—”

  He put a finger on her lips. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. I wanted to be with you.”

  There it was again, that tone that shot an odd concoction of longing and unease through her veins.

  Then he said, as one would to a child, “I did promise, after all.”

  Had she imagined that earlier lacing of intimacy in his voice?

  She said, “Thank you. Now I release you from bondage. Go feed yourself.”

  He rose from the bed, then stood there for a moment. “Do you think you can get back to sleep? Maybe I should bring you a couple more Tylenol before I go downstairs.”

  “I need to go to the bathroom anyway. Go on, I’ll be fine.”

  “Wait a minute.” He left the room. Glory heard his feet go down the stairs and return quickly. “Here’s the flashlight. I can find my way around in the dark.” He flipped it on.

  She reached out and took it from him as she slid off the bed. “Thanks.”

  He hesitated. “Just call me if you need anything . . . or if you get dizzy again. I’ll be on the couch.”

  She nodded.

  He took one step toward the door, then stopped. “If you—”

  “I’m fine. Go and get something to eat. You might have to carry me back down those stairs tomorrow; you’re going to need your strength.”

  He chuckled, but stuck by her side all the way to the bathroom.

  As she put her hand on the doorknob and began to ease the door closed, she said, “I’m not wobbly at all.” It was a lie of course, but the man needed to eat—and sleep without being crushed. “You don’t have to wait.”

  “All right.” He started to walk back down the hall.

  She stuck her head back out into the hall. “Eric.”

  He turned to look at her over his shoulder.

  “It’s really stupid for you to sleep on the couch. Your bed is big enough for both of us; I promise to keep to myself and not mash you.”

  He smiled. “Thanks.” He held her gaze for a moment. “I’d better take the couch. I’ll be back up to wake you in two hours.”

  She closed the door, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed.

  Eric heard the mantel clock strike two-fifteen. In that dark hour, while the storm wreaked havoc outside, one fact became glaringly clear: That clock was the only constant in his life. It had been in his parents’ home for as long as he could remember; up until he and Jill had moved into the little house on Montgomery Avenue and his mother had given it to them as a housewarming gift. It was one of the few possessions he’d retained after the divorce.

  He lay on the couch with his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze fixed on the ceiling as he listened to the unrelenting wind. The hollow and desolate sound made him think: That’s what it’s like inside me. He could almost visualize the cold, whirling current contained inside his own chest, picking up the occasional bit of emotional debris and lifting it, flaunting it before his heart so he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there.

  The sound of the wind drew him deeper into self-examination than he cared to venture. Recently he’d been feeling like a man trying to bail out a sinking boat with a teaspoon. Scott seemed to be receding farther away each day. He was going to become as lost to Eric as Glory’s baby was to her if he didn’t do something soon. And he wasn’t any closer to getting Jill to admit there was a serious problem than he had been two months ago.

  Tula was in danger of losing her sight and, as selfish as it was, he couldn’t deny his biggest fear was that she wouldn’t be able to help care for Scott. Even as Eric thought this, he realized he’d grown to count on Tula for more than just child care; her pragmatic attitude and emotional support had helped him through many a dark day.

  And now . . . Glory. He’d been able to put his professional questions behind him, but now that she was back, so were his questions—and not all of them were professional. He was attracted to her (if he were completely honest with himself, he would have to admit he probably always had been on some level). He’d always liked her humor and admired her giving manner. Had their paths been different earlier in their lives . . . aw, well, no sense in committing energy to such thoughts. That was then and this was now, and neither of them was in any way ready for a new relationship.

  Still, the nonprofessional questions continued to present themselves. Just how scarred was she? Had her trauma all been caused by the fire and her subsequent losses? Or was there more—were his suspicions of Andrew’s possessiveness and emotional control anywhere near the truth? And what extremes might that have driven her to?

  He rubbed his forehead trying to wipe away his racing thoughts, but he could not get his mind to shut off.

  He turned onto his side and was just grabbing a pillow to block out the sound of the wind when he heard a loud thud from overhead. He was vaulting up the stairs before he drew another breath. As he reached the top, he heard Glory crying.

  He nearly tripped over her in the dark as he rushed into the room. She was crawling across the bedroom floor, sobbing with fear.

  “Glory?” He knelt down and grasped her shoulders.

  “I have to get out!” she cried frantically. “The door . . . out!” She tried to break away.

  He touched her face. “Glory, you’re safe.”

  She inhaled deeply. “Smoke!” She wrenched free with surprising strength and was scrabbling across the floor before he could catch her. A long thin whine of fear continued as she searched for the way out.

  “There’s no fire,” he said firmly. He glanced around for the flashlight, but didn’t see it. “Stop!” He was afraid she’d hurt herself thrashing around in the dark—he wasn’t even certain that she was awake.

  She thudded against the open door, slamming it into the wall.

  The stairs . . .

  Unable to get a good grip on her, he threw his body over hers and held her pinned to the floor.

  She writhed beneath him. Her whimpers erupting into a feral scream of panic. She clawed at him to free herself.

  “There’s no fire. Glory!” he yelled.

  She stopped screaming.

  “You’re safe, Glory. I’m here,” he said against her ear, and she stopped struggling against him. “You’re safe.”

  Her breath was coming in gulps and spasms.

  Eric slid his arms around her and rolled onto his back, taking her with him. She burrowed her face in his shoulder and cried. It was the cry of loss, of grief, not panic. He wanted to take away her pain, but all he could do was hold her and let her weep.

  After several minutes, she stilled, and her breathing evened out. She swallowed convulsively, then said in a trembling voice, “I was dreaming.”

  He squeezed her more tightly. “Do you have that dream often?” Had her nights been haunted like this since the fire?

  She took a deep, shuddering breath. “No.”

  “Was it a memory, do you think?”

  “I suppose it could have been . . . I . . . I don’t know what really happened.”

  “Do you want to?” he asked carefully.

  It was a few moments before she answered. “Not knowing is horrible—but I’m almost afraid remembering would be so much more horrible. If I remember, how will I ever get it out of my head?”

  “Do you know anything at all?”

  She shook her head against his shoulder. “The last thing I remember was the day before.”

  “What happened the day before?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary.” Even as she said it, he could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

  “You didn’t . . .” He wasn’t sure he should press, but he had his own questions about that night. “You didn’t hear anything after . . . from the report, or newspapers?”

  “Granny said it was the furnace; that’s all I know. Everyone wanted to talk about it. And sometimes they looked at me like . . . I don’t know . . . like they did Mrs. Cooksey after the authorities took her kids away.” She li
cked her lips. “That’s why I had to leave. I just couldn’t stand it day after day.”

  Eric could imagine the looks—he’d heard the rumors. They’d been wide and varied, but mostly boiled down to the improbability of Glory’s escaping and her rich husband dying. When Glory took off, it only made things worse. Of course, Eric had had his own questions; was it grief that had driven her away . . . or guilt?

  “Do you want me to tell you what I know about it?” His heart accelerated slightly at this suggestion. Could he prod her into remembering?

  She grabbed a fistful of his T-shirt.

  If she said no, he would leave it alone. But if she needed to know—and he was convinced a person couldn’t heal without knowing, Glory didn’t seem in any way over the trauma—he might be able to help her. He ignored the little voice that said she might not be better off, but he would have answers. The question was, did he really want them?

  “Okay.”

  He decided a clinical description would be easier for her to bear than his personal accounting of that night, of his own surprisingly emotional response to finding her inside a burning building and to the stillbirth of her baby.

  “The alarm sounded at 3:50. The pumper arrived on scene at 4:03.” The details were fresh because he’d just reread them. “Both you and Andrew suffered carbon monoxide poisoning. Even in small amounts, it causes confusion. That’s why when you awakened you couldn’t find your way out—”

  Her head jerked up off his shoulder. “I was trying to get out?” She sounded truly surprised.

  “I believe so. I found you near the back door. Andrew was in bed.”

  She didn’t say anything for a long while, but she did settle her head back on his shoulder. Her body felt as if it were vibrating with tension, like the high-strung, rapid vacillations of a tuning fork. He kept his arm around her, not moving, feeling that somehow gathering comfort without having to look at him, wrapped in the anonymity of the dark, made it easier for her to hear.

  He went on, “The investigation led to a faulty gas line in the furnace. The carbon monoxide detector didn’t have a battery.”