Endless Fear

by Adrianne Lee

  April’s heart beat crazily. “Why?”

  “August thought a short might have caused the electrical failure last night.”

  “Did it?”

  “Not according to Jacks.”

  Was he saying that someone had deliberately turned off the main switch? That didn’t come as much of a surprise. The whole household knew her fear of the dark. Once again the garage walls seemed to close in on her. Someone besides Spencer must have known she’d gone to the basement. Who? She shifted the heavy books to her other arm, wishing she could ease the weight of her worries as easily.

  “April, I realize it was too dark to see anything, but did you hear anything unusual before I found you last night?”

  “Unusual?” Like Lily’s whispering, accusing voice? She bit back a hysterical laugh. How could she tell him about the voice? If he’d heard it he wouldn’t be asking generalities. The watchful flint in his dove-gray eyes sparked an awful thought. Did he think she had turned off the power? She squared her shoulders defensively. “Unusual? In what way?”

  “I don’t know—noises. Breathing…. Footsteps….” Spencer shrugged. “Noises….” He stepped closer, approaching her as cautiously as he approached the subject. He didn’t want a repeat of the incident on the attic stairs. But anger wasn’t good either. If she got mad she’d close him out in a heartbeat. From the wariness in her eyes and the set of her shoulders it might already be too late.

  April couldn’t forget he had believed the worst about her after the car accident. Why would this time be any different? “Did you hear any of those things?”

  “Well, no…I—“

  “Neither did I.”

  Frustrated, Spencer cut the distance between them to inches. He was bungling this. Either she was telling him the truth, or she didn’t trust him. Hell, why should she trust him? When had he been supportive? Right from the first, he’d been told she’d been selfish to come at this time. And why?

  Because he couldn’t bear to look at her without remembering. Without wanting to touch her and love her. He caught hold of a strand of her hair. “Oh, April….”

  April’s pulse thrummed, and she knew without a doubt that the sudden influx was due to the nearness of the man, not their conversation nor her displeasure at being stuck in the garage. All her intentions to keep up her guard deserted. God help her. When Spence looked at her with such need in his darkening eyes, she couldn’t believe he meant her harm.

  He tilted her chin and lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was tender, fragile, and breath-stealingly sweet. Heat surged in the pit of April’s stomach as she leaned into Spence, urging him to deepen his possession.

  Spencer obliged. He slipped his arms about her, pulling her against him as close as her armload of books allowed. His tongue seemed to have a mind of its own, plunging, tasting, delighting as his fingers stroked her back and tangled in her silken hair.

  April moaned and murmured his name.

  Spencer gazed lovingly at her flushed face, her glazed aqua eyes, and realized she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Shame and guilt sobered him. He had no right to do what he was doing, no right to draw these feelings from this woman.

  He pulled away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t….” Shouldn’t what? Love her? Desire her? How could he explain? Once she remembered, she would hate him forever.

  “Sorry…?” April clutched the books to her thundering heart.

  “It’s not you,” he said feebly. “It’s me.”

  What was that supposed to mean? Only a blind person wouldn’t see that he wanted her. Or was it Lily he wanted? Confusion, shame and anger tangled inside her. With tears threatening, she brushed past Spencer and ran all the way to the house. In her room, she threw herself on the bed and gave vent to her self-pity.

  Spent, she fell asleep.

  Two hours later, she awoke, surprisingly refreshed, and more than a little embarrassed at her outburst. What must Spencer be thinking? He’d initiated a simple kiss, not a marriage proposal. She was the one who’d wanted more from it. For a woman who was normally even-tempered, around Spence she seemed as touchy as nitroglycerin.

  She changed clothes, washed her face, brushed her hair and went down stairs. In the kitchen, she came across one of the twins. Readying an apology, she was relieved to realize it was Thane and not Spencer standing at the counter with his head bent over a paper. He seemed engrossed in its contents and didn’t look up until April asked, “What are you reading?”

  Thane flinched. He glanced around with a half-dazed expression as though he’d been miles away in some other land or time. “Pardon? Oh, you mean this?”

  For an anxious second, she wondered if it was one of the poems, but he quickly quelled the notion.

  “The wine list for the party. Guess I was thinking about something else. Have you seen Vanessa? We haven’t had a moment alone all day, and I really need to discuss something with her.”

  “Well, now’s your chance. I just saw her go into her room upstairs.”

  “Now, huh?” He swallowed as though there was a lump the size of a baseball in his throat. “I suppose I should take care of getting these wines from the cellar first.”

  April had the distinct impression that Thane was looking for an excuse not to go and have that talk with his fiancée and yet, she sensed it was also important to him that he not put it off. The solution was obvious. And it would give her an excuse to spend unchallenged time in the basement. But did she have the nerve?

  As soon as the thought filled her mind, she knew she had to find the nerve. What was that old adage about getting right back on a horse…? If she put off going to the basement, she might never recover her memory. “I’m not doing anything at the moment. Why don’t you go and talk with Vanessa? I’ll see to the wines.”

  He hesitated, flicking his gaze from the sheet of paper in his hand back to April. “Are you sure you can…can handle it alone?”

  The uncertainty in his voice made her ponder how much Spencer had told him about the night before. Probably everything. She felt heat slide into her cheeks. “Just how many bottles are we talking about?”

  “A dozen.”

  A dozen. The thought of repeated trips to and from the wine cellar shook her resolve. This might prove more than she’d bargained for. Perhaps she should have help. “Where’s Helga?”

  “I think she’s gone to her cottage to rest before starting dinner.”

  April nodded. “She’s really been working her legs off.” The housekeeper didn’t need more work to do and besides, how could she confront her past if she didn’t do it alone? She plucked the list from Thane’s grip before he could protest further or she could change her mind, then propelled her hand into the small of his back. “Look, I’ll manage. Even if it takes twelve trips.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

  Armed with the list, a pen, and a cloth rag, April tried to ignore the fissure of anxiety grazing her insides as she descended the narrow stairwell to the larder. Nothing attained easily was ever appreciated, she reminded herself, and breaking through her fears to recover her memory would be no exception.

  Before she was partway down the stairs, the familiar odors of dry earth and stored food stuffs reached her and revived her flagging confidence. She felt even better a moment later as she gazed around the little room. Although the overhead light cast several shadows, only a vivid imagination could make any of them into something sinister.

  She crossed to the basement doorway and halted for a second on the spot where Spencer had held her and kissed her the night before. A warm glow raced through her bloodstream, conjured heated images, and brought a tingle to her flesh. But her heart ached with confusion. How could she harbor these feelings for him in light of the knowledge of his affair with her mother, in light of the experience this afternoon in the garage? She had no answers. Nor would she get any, standing here brooding about the situation. She moved across the threshold.

  The basement was spookily silent.
Although she tried not to let it, disquiet pinged through her mind and painfully squeezed her chest. Her gaze zipped across the room. Seeking what? Ghosts? She gave herself a shake and took several slow, calming breaths. Granted, the clutter might be considered dangerous, but it certainly wasn’t hiding any ghouls.

  Her gaze shifted to the spot where the staircase had stood. She closed her eyes and pictured it there. It was amazing what the mind could do. She could almost see it, almost smell her mother’s Lily of the Valley perfume. April leaned against the larder doorframe, letting the image come.

  Voices.

  On the landing overhead.

  Her mother and….

  April’s breath lodged in her throat. She recognized the other voice.

  Cynthia.

  April was fourteen-years-old again and flushed with guilt. Why? The memory flooded back. She’d been trying to pry the boards from one of the cavern accesses. Karl and she had been taking turns whenever they could chance it. The caverns were off limits to them, but two teenagers stuck on an island the size of Farraday had more energy and curiosity than nine cats. The plan was to gradually loosen the nails holding each board, then remove the barriers altogether in one quiet operation, enter and explore to their heart’s content.

  Now she’d been caught.

  Stealthily, she set the pry bar on the cement floor. The metallic plink seemed to explode in the open room. On tiptoe, she ducked beneath the stairs and crouched in the farthest corner, dreading the certain discovery.

  It took her a moment to realize the voices hadn’t faltered at the sound of the pry bar hitting the floor. In fact, they hadn’t seemed to notice it at all, she realized, listening to the tense exchange going on overhead.

  “I assure you I have never made advances toward Mr. Farraday.” The angry, defensive note in Cynthia’s usually soft voice was unmistakable. “He’s k-kind to me, but completely devoted to you.”

  Lily’s cruel laughter rang through the basement. “But of course he is. I simply wanted to make you aware that simple Southern belle charm you exude whenever he’s around is wasted. Dear, sweet Augie, he’s a bit preoccupied, but not stupid. The act is just too-too-hokey.”

  “Hokey…?” The word sounded choked off.

  “Seriously, darling, you should drop it. You never got farther south than Dallas. And for the past fourteen years you’ve been here. Maybe you’re missing Texas, is that it? I could talk to Augie about getting another secretary.”

  “You know better than that.”

  “I’m just saying that if you wanted to go, I wouldn’t stand in your way.”

  “I’ll leave Farraday the day you do.”

  “Hmph!” Footsteps started downward. The scent of Lily’s perfume grew stronger with every swish of her ruffled petticoat. April put her hand against her mouth to block out the cloying smell.

  Two legs appeared between the risers. April inhaled raggedly.

  “You and your sister are so different.” Lily’s tone was creamy without a hint of malice. “Davina is such a breath of fresh air. I’ll never understand how John Garrick left her standing at the altar to run off with you.”

  “Really, Lily….” Indulgence laced Cynthia’s voice.

  “Oh, but then you were with child, as they say.” Lily didn’t miss a beat. “In this case children, weren’t you?”

  “Y’all know that’s not the way it was. Furthermore, Davina and I have worked through that long ago. It’s water under the bridge.”

  “If you say so, darling.”

  The two women had reached the basement floor. April could see their faces between the open risers. Her mother wore an innocent expression she’d popularized on the big screen. “I must admit though, until lately, I never could understand why Davina grieved so for the loss of that man. John was so crude, so earthy.” She said the last word as though the person it described was something to be held by finger and thumb and shaken until clean.

  “I won’t argue the virtues of my late husband with you, Lily.” Cynthia’s face was crimson.

  Lily clutched her by the elbow and led her in the direction of the wine cellar. “Did John ever mention that time he made a pass at me? No?”

  As they moved away from her, April breathed easier. She considered attempting a hasty retreat up the stairs, but her nerve failed her.

  “It was shortly after he’d given Davina that pathetic little engagement ring. I set him straight and fast. After all, Davina was my dearest friend.” Lily laughed again. “She’d probably get a hoot out of that story. Perhaps I’ll tell her about it at the party this evening. Oh, by the way, darling, you won’t be attending tonight. Chas left a message that he’s bringing a date, so we don’t need an extra girl. Now let’s get the wine, shall we? Do you have your list handy?”

  April’s fingers curled around the wine list in her own hand as the image vanished. Paper crumpling startled her. For a full second, she blinked, looking about the basement in the confused aftermath of the forgotten memory. The staircase was gone. Her father’s discarded inventions cluttered the room. She was no longer fourteen, and she was quite alone.

  The memory, although interesting, was not the one she coveted. However, she consoled herself, it was a step in the right direction. Bearing that in mind, she glanced down at the wrinkled wine list, smoothed it as best she could, then made for the wine cellar door--a rustic unit of heavy planks and handmade wrought iron fixtures like something from an old English pub.

  Gripping the latch, she pulled it toward her, surprised at how easily and silently it slid open. Evidently someone had oiled the hinges since the other day. She felt for and found the light switch. Dust motes skittered in the instant glare of illumination.

  The pungency of earth and dust and wine-soaked wood rushed at her from every corner of the vast chamber which had been carved out of the rocky ground sometime after Octavius had had the house built. In fact, if she recalled correctly, there was an access into the tunnels from this room. Idly, she wondered if Karl ever succeeded in getting into the tunnels. She would have to check their spot, she decided. No now, but soon.

  In spite of her reborn bravery, she braced the door open with a cardboard box. Wine racks crowded the room in a haphazard pattern. Each was six-tiered and towered over her like top-heavy book shelves, filled with dusty bottles reposed in downward slants.

  She’d had no idea her father had such an extensive collection of wines. As she moved between the racks, she noted there were selections from France, Italy, Germany, California, and even Washington State. Some of the racks appeared too flimsy for the precious charge they tended, and it struck her that repairs were needed here as well as the ferry.

  A muted noise sounded behind her, near the doorway. She flinched and spun around. A chill shot through her before she could stop it. Damn. She was doing it again. This foolishness had to end.

  Concentrating on the wines, she located a Chablis from California and checked it off the list, then gathered a Washington Riesling and did the same. She took the two bottles to the kitchen and returned.

  On a rack near the back wall, full of very old, very dusty bottles, she found the requested French Bordeaux. She lifted the bottle. The ancient framework creaked, alarmingly. With widening eyes, April backed away from the decrepit structure. How solid were these racks? It looked as if this one could collapse at any minute. God, the weight of all those bottles, the flying glass—could badly injure, even kill someone.

  Shivering, she hastened to the wine cellar door, gave the bottle a swipe with the cloth and set it on the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, April caught a movement. Her imagination? Rats? Or…?

  “Is someone here?”

  No answer.

  Calm down, April. Don’t do this to yourself!

  Forcing herself to continue, she moved between the racks, hunting for another bottle of Washington wine. A Zinfandel.

  After an extensive search, she finally found it on a bottom shelf of another unstable looking wine holde
r.

  Gingerly, she hoisted the bottle. The rack vibrated and screaked.

  To her right, she heard a different sound. Somebody else’s breathing? Her head snapped around. She caught a movement of shadow on the wall. This wasn’t her imagination. Her pulse zinged. Clutching the bottle to her trembling heart, she started to rise.

  “Thane, is that you? July? Are you playing games again?”

  She could have sworn she heard a grunt. A second later the full-packed wine rack came crashing toward her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Loud, tinny clanks rattled the walls of August’s workshop as Karl and Spencer entered. The place reeked of wood smoke and grease and boiled coffee. The latter came from a blackened pot atop the old fashioned airtight stove in the far right corner, the sole source of heat. Because the shop was usually either too warm or too cold, Spencer suspected August only fed the rumbly, black contraption whenever the chill reached him. Three steps into the room, he started to sweat.

  August sat on a tall, metal stool, hammering a length of pipe that was wedged in the vise attached to his work table. Catching sight of them, he stopped and laid the hammer aside. A puzzled frown crinkled his freckled brow. “Is something wrong?”

  As Karl rapidly explained the incident on the ferry, the color drained from August’s face. “Dear Lord, my daughter could’ve been killed.” The realization of this seemed to hit him hard. His face reddened in an odd splotchy pattern. He leaped off the stool and shouted at Karl. “Why didn’t you let me know the barge was in such a state of disrepair?”

  Spencer had never before heard August raise his voice in anger. Obviously, Karl was equally stunned by the outburst. He took a defensive backward step as though expecting to be struck. “Johansen told you about the ferry before he retired last month.”

  “He did not!”

  Karl’s tan face went ashen and his blue eyes widened in disbelief. His head bobbed on his shoulders like a velvety dog in the rear window of a car. “Man, you’re such a space-case you can’t remember what day it is, let alone what you’re told. Johansen gave you a whole list of things that need repairs.”