by Adrianne Lee
The finality of these words numbed April’s brain. Feeling as helpless as she had watching her mother die, she shambled on, reflexively keeping ahead of the knife blade.
Shortly, the muted roar of the surf reached through the tunnel and whispered against April’s ears, penetrating her stupor. She stiffened. If Helga succeeded, she wouldn’t be alive to hear this wondrous, vital sound tomorrow. Was she just going to let this happen?
Sudden white hot rage licked through her. Cowardice had robbed her of twelve years. She might not be in charge of this situation, but she wasn’t dead yet. And, by George, if she were meant to die at this woman’s hand, it wouldn’t be submissively.
With anger came action. She unzipped her parka and shrugged it off in one smooth motion, clamping onto the right wristband.
“What are you do—“
Before Helga could finish the question, April rounded on her. She slapped the jacket at the housekeeper’s hand. The woman hollered and let loose of the object she was gripping. The clunk of metal hitting solid dirt echoed around them. April’s heart nearly stopped. The flashlight was lying on the ground, not the knife.
A guttural yowl tore from Helga’s throat. She lunged at April.
April reared back and tripped. She hit the ground hard. Before she could move, Helga had straddled her, the knife poised high over her head.
Gasping, April lifted the parka like a shield, trying to wriggle away. Vaguely, she heard the thud of running feet. Help. They would arrive too late.
As Helga brought the knife in a downward stroke, bright light fell across the two women and glinted off the knife’s razor sharp blade.
“Ma! Don’t!” Karl’s voice altered Helga’s expression from fury to shock and confusion. Her arm froze in mid-swing.
But April knew how far beyond the line of sanity the woman had gone, knew she could not be trusted to comply with her son’s request. Using all the strength she could muster from her awkward position, April slapped her jacket at the deadly butcher knife. Her aim was accurate. The knife flew free and spiraled through the air, landing with a clatter out of the housekeeper’s reach.
The loss of her weapon seemed to drain the fight from Helga. As several bobbing lights neared, April watched her take on the appearance of a giant rag doll and feared she might collapse.
However, April hadn’t the strength to stand, let alone go to Helga’s aid. The combined lights pained her eyes. She dropped her head into her hands, heard Karl arrive at his mother’s side, heard Spencer, her father, and Nancy Merritt’s worried voices—all calling her name. Their chants resounded in her ears like a song that she was too tired to join in on.
The last thing April felt were her own hot tears seeping against her palms before she succumbed to the welcome blackness of exhaustion.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Spencer sat in the den with August, Cynthia, Thane, and March, who all, he concluded, looked as near exhaustion as he felt.
The Sheriff and his deputy had asked their questions, taken Helga into custody, and left. July was napping. Vanessa, her parents, and grandmother had insisted on seeing to dinner, graciously giving the Farradays and Garricks a chance to sort through the aftermath of discoveries and events. For the past few hours that was what the five had been doing.
“Son, I’ve never blamed you for Lily’s fall.” August seated on the sofa beside Cynthia, puffed at his pipe. The rich aroma lent a singular touch of normalcy to this abnormal day. “I would have said something a long time ago, but it just never occurred to me that you might be blaming yourself.”
Spencer favored him with a grateful smile. Incredibly, April had been right about her father. August was aware of all of Lily’s dalliances, and he held no animosity toward either of his stepsons.
“What will become of Helga now?” Thane queried. This was the first time he’d spoken since August admitted knowing of his brief affair with Lily, and Spencer suspected his twin had been mentally laying old ghosts to rest.
“That’s up to the County psychiatrist,” August replied.
“I still don’t understand why she stole Thane’s poems from April’s room, then gutted the trunk in the attic.” Spencer shook his head, not really expecting anyone to answer.
The clack of March’s knitting needles ceased. “Lordy, that’s as plain as the nose on your face. She was afraid Jesse had written love letters to Lily, too.”
“Poor woman.” Cynthia sighed. “Livin’ twelve years with the guilt of Lily’s murder. It’s no wonder her mind snapped.”
“Indeed.” August plonked his pipe against the ashtray. “She must have also felt directly responsible for April’s illness, and, I suppose, somewhere along the way she probably started to question how ‘accidental’ her actions were.”
“Pity—“
“Humph!” March cut Cynthia off. “Don’t be wasting pity on that one.” She waved one long knitting needle through the air for emphasis. “Or, go thinking she didn’t resent our demands on her—our criticisms of Karl. No. Helga didn’t stay here because she loved us. Mark my words, she did it out of fear—fear of losing her livelihood, her home, her son.”
Spencer agreed with March. Protecting Karl had obviously been Helga’s motive. But the lengths she’d gone to… Damn the woman! He bit back the rage that wouldn’t dissipate and stole a glance at his mother. Heat crawled across his face. Helga wasn’t the only one with sins to account for. It would be a long while before he forgave himself for suspecting his mother could in any way have been responsible for the atrocities the housekeeper had committed. He reached into his pocket and dug out her gold cross. He could only speculate why Helga had put it in the wine cellar.
“Here mother. I came across this in the bathroom last night while I was searching the house for April,” he lied, seeing no reason to put his mother through any further anguish.
Cynthia’s face lighted up as she caught hold of the necklace. “Oh, I’m so glad you found it. August gave me this when July was born.” She patted her husband’s knee. “I feel like the luckiest woman alive. Gracious, when I think how close we came to losin’ April…”
A chill swept Spencer. Although no one had broached the subject of April’s mental stability, he sensed the worry floating just below the surface of their conversation. “You’re sure she’s all right?”
Leaning toward him, his mother gave his hand an indulgent pat. “I’ve already told you—except for some major exhaustion, some minor bumps and scrapes, one rather colorful eye, and a sprained ankle, the little darlin’ seems to have survived the ordeal intact.”
“But…?” He didn’t need to express the root of his fear.
“Sweetie, only Dr. Merritt can tell us that. And until April is rested and they can talk… Well, we’ll just have to hold a good thought.”
But good thoughts dissolved in the acid solution of worry and impatience that had claimed his brain. Spencer jerked to his feet. Carrying his coffee cup, he went to the French windows, undid the latch, and cracked the door open.
The storm had arrived as the searchers were entering the house, and from the mess on the grounds, it appeared to have swept across the island with an unleashed fury not unlike the maelstrom which had transpired at the same time inside the cavern. Clouds still lingered, but the air had a clean scent as though purged of all malignant factors. He felt the same sense inside the house.
Yet he couldn’t relax. Spencer gulped at his coffee. Cold. He grimaced. Even his relief at discovering he hadn’t killed Lily was dampened by not knowing how April felt about it. Would she realize he’d merely repulsed her mother’s drunken advances, not meant to push her down the stairs? Or had Helga’s attack permanently damaged her whole outlook?
Dusk began to creep across the landscape. He shut the doors against the encroaching cold and stalked to the fireplace. Surely, it was taking Dr. Merritt too long to evaluate April. It was a bad sign. He knew it.
At the sound of footsteps approaching, he jerked his attention to
ward the doorway. Directly, as though materializing at his silent behest, Nancy Merritt appeared.
He lurched at her, sloshing cold coffee on his clean slacks. “How’s April?”
“Better than you, I’d say.” The doctor smirked at him, accentuating the deep creases at the sides of both her warm brown eyes. She looked as tired as the rest of them, but not as troubled. “April has penetrated the memory block. We may need to talk again, but I don’t anticipate any problems she won’t be able to overcome now.”
Exuberance and relief burst through Spencer. He shouted, “Yes!”
His happiness was echoed by the others with words of rejoicing, smiles, and tears of joy.
“It just goes to prove what I’ve always thought.” March’s crusty voice rose above the others. “There’s nothing crazy about that girl. Why, she’s a true Farraday.”
Cynthia chucked and dabbed at her wet eyes. August hid a grin by relighting his pipe.
Undaunted, March heaved to her feet. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could use something a lot stronger than this cold coffee. Thane, let’s go see how those in-laws of yours are doing.”
Thane gave Spencer a ‘thumbs-up,’ then offered the elderly woman his arm. “Ma’am…”
As the two made their way from the room, Dr. Merritt turned to Spencer. “By the way, April is awake and asking to see you.”
Instead of delighting him more, the news dulled his elation. Ever since they’d found April with Helga, ever since he’d carried her unconscious to her room, he had been, in turn, anticipating and dreading this moment. The doctor’s expression offered no clue as to what April wanted to see him about. His part in Lily’s fall? The possibility no longer seemed likely. With the return of her full mental faculties, April would doubtless realize the truth on that score.
Spencer’s pulse skittered. He knew what was really frightening him. Although mere hours had passed, April may have grown up completely, and come to see her feelings for him were more old memories. Perhaps the reason she wanted to see him was to let him down gently. Did Dr. Merritt know? He couldn’t bring himself to ask.
“I want to see April, too.” Grinning, August laid down the pipe and stood. “And finally give her her mother’s jewelry.”
“August,” the doctor interceded. “Your doctor isn’t heading back to Phoenix for at least a week. Couldn’t that particular surprise wait another day or so?”
Rising, Cynthia crooked her arm through her husband’s and gazed up at him with loving eyes. “Nancy’s right, darlin’.. I think we ought to give Spence and April some time alone.”
“Why?” August sounded disappointed and, for a second, Spencer thought he was going to insist on coming along. But a dawning appeared in his wizened eyes. “Oh, I see.” He winked at Spencer, offered his other arm to Nancy Merritt, and guided the two women to the door. “Ladies, an occasion like this calls for a bottle of my best champagne. Maybe two.”
Trailing behind them, Spencer wiped his sweaty palms against his slacks.
“August…” Cynthia sighed happily. “I’ve decided to redecorate the house this spring. Get rid of all this dreary black…use some natural woods…some light, airy colors. What do you think?”
“It’s about time, my dear.”
In the foyer, August glanced over his shoulder. “We won’t wait dinner on you, son.”
Spencer hastened up the stairs, plagued by the awful fear of impending rejection. As he reached the landing, another thought crept from the recesses of his mind to taunt him. What if Karl’s claim about April’s feelings for him were true? Dear God, had he pushed her away—into Karl’s arms—once too often?
He headed into the endless hallway, unable to outpace his anxiety. It was one thing to harbor the hope he could win April’s love again, but it would be a totally different matter if it was Karl she cared for. The possibility drove a nail through his heart, but he realized he’d have to accept, whatever her choice. His consolation would be her happiness.
Her door loomed in front of him. The time had come to lay his cards on the table, to gather in the winning chips or to accept his loss graciously. He swallowed hard and lifted his hand. The sound of his knock rang as hollowly in his ears as the sorry images of what his life would be without her.
“Come in.”
Spencer entered April’s bedroom.
Propped against the pillows with the covers tucked beneath her arms, April sat in the center of the bed, looking like a battered angel.
Spencer’s throat tightened.
Her right eye was bruised and slightly swollen, and scrapes and scratches marred her normally smooth chin and forehead. Ugly reminders of an ugly ordeal.
Saying a silent prayer of thanks that her life had been spared, he closed the door and moved toward her. Never had he felt more guarded. His future rested in this woman’s hands, in the disposition of her heart. “Hi.”
“Hi.” April couldn’t recall having ever been more aware of another person’s mood than she was of Spencer’s at this moment. Something was dreadfully wrong. Self-consciously, her hand went to her face. “Guess no one would mistake me for Lily Cordell right now.”
She’d made it sound like a casual observation, but April was shaking inside. Before he’d arrived, she’d convinced herself her resemblance to her mother would no longer be a reminder to him of a murder neither of them had committed nor could have prevented. But the discomfort she sensed from him suggested otherwise.
The bedsprings twanged as he sank to an area near her thigh. Distractedly, Spencer watched her golden hair spill across the ruffled collar of her yellow flannel nightgown. She was a ray of sunshine piercing his bleak outlook. Unbidden, his fingers reached to fondle the shiny tresses, but catching himself, he pulled back and dropped his hand to his leg.
The only thing he dare allow to touch her was his gentle gaze. “After all you’ve been through, I can’t believe you’re still hung up about looking like your mother. Take it from a twin. Sharing similar features with someone doesn’t make you alike in any other way, and anyone who can’t differentiate doesn’t deserve your attention.”
“As blunt as always, I see.” The tautness in her chest eased enough to pull a smile from her. If her resemblance to Lily wasn’t bothering him, then what was? “It’s nice to know some things don’t change.”
“But others do.”
His voice held such resignation, April’s hope sagged beneath its weight. A lifetime had passed in the last few hours. It was naïve of her not to realize he’d been affected as sharply as she had. High drama wrought changes in people, put priorities in order, and revealed unexpected truths. Her heart thudded precariously. Had Spencer discovered he no longer loved her as he had at eighteen? That the intimacies they’d shared since she’d come to Calendar House had been nothing more than a halfhearted attempt to recapture their stolen youth?
He was searching her face. Searching for a way to tell her? The thought tore at April, but she’d learned she couldn’t run away from reality and survive. “Spence, I —”
“It’s Karl, isn’t it?”
“K…Karl?” she sputtered, confused. “Has something happened to him?”
“No,” he answered curtly. If she’d rammed a spear through the center of his chest, it couldn’t have hurt Spencer more than the obvious concern for Karl he could see growing in her round aqua eyes. Well, at least now he knew where he stood with her. “Karl went to Friday Harbor with his mother.”
April stiffened and dropped her gaze to her entwined fingers, wrestling to control the anger which arose at every mention of Helga. Although a part of her understood and pitied the woman, she imagined her body would heal before her mind supplied the insulating layers that would eventually distance her enough from the raw pain of the ordeal to put it into perspective. Right now, she couldn’t bear to think of Helga, much less discuss her.
A new awkwardness hovered between them, and Spencer thought about leaving, but couldn’t pull himself away. De
spite her wounds, she was impossibly more beautiful than before the hell she’d been through. God, how he yearned to crush her to him and declare his feelings, but he knew now that it was not what she wanted. “Are you in much pain?”
“Nothing a few days and lots of Tylenol won’t cure.” And another hundred years to get over loving you, she added to herself, trying unsuccessfully to tear her gaze from his sensuous mouth. Longing swirled through her. “I suppose none of this can be kept from the press?”
“Not a chance. One zealous individual showed up today to find out why the engagement party was cancelled. The little weasel arrived as the Sheriff and his deputy were leaving with Helga.”
“Oh, no.” Lily’s death would be fodder for every trashy and legitimate news source around the world. Her last hope of claiming Spencer’s love slipped away. It was so unfair. Now that her memory had returned, everything she had ever desired could be hers for the asking.
Everything but this man.
He’d made it abundantly clear how he felt about this sort of publicity, and a man in public life could ill afford a wife who had a history of years spent in a sanitarium. There would always be another ‘little weasel’ to ferret out the story to use against him in one election after another. “I’m sorry.”
The misery in her voice went straight to his heart, and instinctively, he covered her hands with his. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart.”
April stared at the hands covering hers, intoxicated by the sudden tingles coursing up her arm. Sweetheart? A brotherly endearment? It didn’t feel brotherly. Don’t read something into this, she warned herself. “Aren’t you concerned about next November’s elections?”
“Not really.” Recklessly, he slid his hands across the cuff of her fleecy nightie, up the length of her arms to her shoulders. “I imagine the sensationalism of Lily Cordell being murdered will grab headlines for a few days, but then it should fade into obscurity…at long last.”