Deceptions of the Heart

by Denise Moncrief

  “How long were you married?”

  “Twenty years almost.” He paused. “I don’t think I ever really knew her. She kept so much of herself buried. She was more concerned with outward appearances than with…reality.” He turned his head toward the night sky and sighed. “She was a good mother to Marnie.”

  The longing to see my daughters stabbed me in the heart. I swallowed a sob. Before I could indulge in sentimentality or sorrow or some other raw emotion, my mind did a sharp U-turn into marginally safer territory. “I was married to Alex for fourteen years.” Life stilled. Time stopped. I closed my eyes. “We knew each other six months before we married. That’s not long enough. I didn’t really know him. I thought I did, but sometimes…sometimes things just aren’t clear. I believed our marriage was good and life was great. I guess it was, until…”

  …until I overheard Jackson and Alex plotting to cover up a murder.

  Something more niggled at the far reaches of my subconscious, but it refused to emerge and become clear. I sipped the iced tea to wet my suddenly dry throat.

  “Jennifer, what are you talking about? Who is Alex?”

  The desire to fall into slumber tugged at the corners of my eyes. “Alex Prentiss,” I murmured, unfolded my legs and leaned my head on the chair back.

  “The man from California? When were you married to him? Is that why it was so important for you to find him?”

  I put my hand over my mouth, stifling a yawn. “No, Jennifer wasn’t married to Alex. Rhonda was,” I answered as if from a distance. My mind struggled to stay focused. “I’m tired. I don’t really want to go into this again.” Even as I spoke those thin words, I knew I couldn’t put him off.

  “You’ve just said something incomprehensible. Something about a man you’ve only met once. Do you think you’re his dead wife?” His gruffness barely penetrated my exhaustion.

  “I have her memories,” I said without care for the consequences.

  Darkness floated around the edges of my vision. My eyelids drooped.

  “Jennifer?” He nudged me. “Answer me.” My eyes fluttered open. I turned to him, but his face appeared to melt. “You mean you don’t remember your life, but you do remember hers?” It seemed his words registered in my brain two beats after his mouth moved.

  “Uh-huh,” I mumbled through the enveloping fog and longed for release.

  “That’s…impossible.”

  “That’s what Dr. Crane said, but I can’t explain it otherwise. Why would I remember her life and not mine? It makes no sense.”

  Her life. My life. Was I claiming Jennifer’s dysfunctional life as my own?

  “Dr. Crane? You went to see him about this?” This wasn’t a question. It was more like an inquisition.

  “Yes, I told you that.” My mind slipped back toward slumber.

  He shook me awake. “No, you told me you went to see him because you were having trouble with your memory. How could you possibly have someone else’s memories? No, you didn’t tell me about this…other problem.”

  “How could I? I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I still don’t.”

  “The last time you went to see him you were convinced the donor was your birth mother. You came home distraught and confused and very depressed.”

  Mention of the search for Jennifer’s biological mother broke through my drowsiness. I tried to push up in my chair, but my heavy limbs wouldn’t cooperate. “My birth mother?” Jennifer was adopted? Rhonda understood the emptiness that propelled Jennifer to search for the woman who birthed her—a familiar pain, intense and unfathomable. Rhonda had been adopted as well. “No. I must have been wrong. Rhonda’s too young. I think…” I chewed my bottom lip. “So I went to California the first time not to find my heart donor but to find my birth mother? Why did I think Rhonda was my mother?”

  “You said you felt some sort of…” He waved his hands. “Mystical connection.”

  “And I wanted to find my mother…desperately.”

  “So the real reason you went to California is because you think you’re this Prentiss woman?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.” My words slurred. I turned pleading eyes on him. “Do you understand my problem now?”

  “No, not really. What you suggest is…crazy.”

  “I’m not crazy,” I muttered. “And I’m not going to a shrink.”

  He snorted. “That’s why you looked up Prentiss, because you thought you might have some connection to him?”

  “I don’t want Alex Prentiss.” I laughed at the absurdity. I knew what I wanted, and at the moment what I wanted was giving me the third degree as if I was some sort of suspect in crimes of the heart.

  “Then why did you go looking for him?”

  “I had to know what happened to me. I thought he might have answers. All he gave me was more questions.”

  “What are you trying to pull, Jennifer?”

  I crunched my eyes and shook my head, trying hard to concentrate. “If I’m Jennifer, then I don’t know the answer to that question. After being her for the last few days, I think she might be hiding a lot. But what? When I remember, I’ll let you know.”

  He smirked. “How gracious of you.”

  “Think about it. Do I act like Jennifer? Or do I act like someone you don’t know?”

  His stared into the horizon. “No. You haven’t been acting like yourself. You’ve been more transparent. Your M.O. has always been to cover up instead of expose to the light of day.” Frustration and bitterness punctuated his words.

  “Really? What all have I covered up? I mean, Sairs said I’d done a lot of dirt in my life.”

  He laughed without mirth. “Sairs can be a bit dramatic.”

  “But, still…”

  “I know about some of it. But there are obviously things I don’t know. And some things I wish I didn’t know.” His intense scrutiny made me wish I’d kept my mouth shut. “You have a lot of secrets you won’t share with me.”

  My parched throat ached for relief. I gulped the remaining ounce or two of tea. “What about your secrets? If Claire was a good woman, why did you marry me so soon after she died? Were we having an affair?”

  “Whoa. That was a swift change of subjects.” The condescension in his voice throbbed with anger or disgust—I wasn’t sure which.

  “Well? I’m apparently prone to having affairs. Is that why Marnie hates me so much? Because she thinks I had an affair with you and killed her mother?” I pushed my suspicions at him despite his obvious discomfort. I had to know the truth.

  “We weren’t having an affair,” he sputtered. “I met you only days before Claire died. There was no time to begin an affair. We were in a panic to discover what caused her to go downhill so fast. Her doctor thought she was poisoned, but he could never prove it. We thought…” He rose from his seat and leaned on the porch railing. A clump of sea oats rising above the banister brushed against his hand. “Claire and I spent more time together those last few days than we did the previous five years of our marriage.” He broke off the head of an oat and crumbled it in his hand. “I was never unfaithful to her. She was unfaithful to me.”

  “With who?” I asked, the undeniable instinct of a woman guiding me.

  “Price.” The admission jerked his body.

  A picture of Claire popped into my mind. Her sad eyes begged for mercy…or more precisely, justice. I brushed the vision away as if swatting a fly from my face. “Did Sairs interrogate you? I mean, it seems you had a strong motive. And now I would guess your motives are even stronger. Is that why you hate me? Because you think I’m having an affair with Price Whitaker? Do you want to kill me?”

  He spun around and leaned over me, both hands latched onto the arms of my deck chair, his face inches from mine. Pale. Ashen. Distorted. Breathing heat onto my skin. “Yes, I guess I did have motive, but I didn’t kill her. Just like I’m not going to kill you.” I recoiled from the anger in his eyes. “I told you before I don’t hate you. You’ve done some thi
ngs that make me want to…shake some sense into your head. But I couldn’t hurt you. I love you. You’re not the one I want to…” His mouth snapped shut.

  If he isn’t angry with me, who does he want to kill?

  The faint hum of the outdoor ceiling fan swirled above our heads. A far-off bird cawed and broke his stare. He pulled back and stood over me, poised for action but taking none.

  I inhaled one ragged breath. “Why did you marry me?” I asked, unsure of my timing, but daring to pose the question anyway.

  He shook like a wet dog flinging dirty bathwater. Contemplating murder could not be an easy action to sling off. “I was lonely. And you needed me. Looking back, it happened so fast. Too fast.”

  “I needed you? How?”

  His face softened. The fire in his eyes seemed to seep away, little wisps of smoke drifting into the sky from the ashes of his anger. “It was my fault you lost your job. And you had no one…No family. No job. No savings. You needed help, so I married you. You agreed to be my companion and I agreed to provide for you. I’ve never asked for anything more than you were willing to give me.”

  My muddled mind attempted to sort out the pieces into something that resembled the truth. “But I thought…Brandon said…I thought it was about money. You implied that I married you for your money.”

  He smiled, but an aura of sadness settled over his face, collecting like silt in the depths of his eyes. “Well…you did. But I understood that. Or at least, I thought I did…”

  “Things got kind of tense, didn’t they?”

  “You remember that?” he asked.

  I shook my head, not only to answer his question, but to clear the haze. His thin smile faded and my heart bent until it nearly broke. “Then my heart started failing, right?”

  “You needed someone to take care of you.” He faltered a moment. “That’s when I asked Sudha to come back here to be your caregiver. That was a mistake.”

  “Come back here?” I barely pushed the words through my numb lips.

  “She was our housekeeper, mine and Claire’s. But when Claire died, I told her I didn’t need her anymore.” He looked at me, bright knowledge glittering in his eyes. “She spent a year in California.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tossing off the sheet, I stretched and rolled, every muscle in my body stiff and uncooperative. Anson’s side of the mattress was undisturbed. The digital numbers on the clock blurred. I rubbed my face and the display refocused. Eleven thirty something. I dragged my heavy legs over the side of the bed and lifted myself with effort. The ocean breeze tickled my nose and the rolling tide caressed my ears. Then I remembered where I was.

  Stumbling toward the bath, I snagged my toe on the rag rug near the bed. I righted myself and shook my head, daring my mind to banish the cobwebs and overrule my desire to fall back into bed. The bathroom was empty. None of my toiletries in sight. Without the benefit of a toothbrush, I rubbed the nasty coat of film from my teeth with my finger.

  Done with my morning ablutions, I slogged into the kitchen looking for Anson and something to eat. I flipped open the nearest cabinet in search of oatmeal and found it cleared of everything, including what few dry groceries we bought before we headed out of town.

  Comprehension soaked into my sluggish mind. I looked down at my clothing. I didn’t recognize the sweat pants or T-shirt. Is my mind playing yet another nasty trick on me? I rushed to the bathroom I had just left. Who will I see in the mirror? I pushed the hair aside. Inspected the eyes and the nose. Pulled the shirt down to reveal the scar. I released the breath I held and sagged, leaning heavily on the sink for a moment before I pushed my body into motion once again.

  Stumbling down the hallway, I yelled toward the front of the cottage. “Anson?” Only the echo of my strained cry answered me.

  A frantic exploration revealed no sign he’d been here—no sign I’d ever been here. A neat and tidy cottage, waiting for guests. It was as if I’d invaded someone’s vacation place—a squatter with no rights. My purse—gone. My suitcase—gone. No cell phone. No identification. And worse yet, no car.

  Stepping onto the porch where Anson and I held our brutal confessional last night, I scanned the area in front of the cottage. Nothing but sand and sea oats. A shell-covered track that led to another shell-covered track. The last bit of civilization miles away. Too tired to concentrate when we arrived, I didn’t note how we got here. The vague recollection of a gravel road flashed across my mind—a thin strip of land that connected the peninsula to this smaller, more remote island.

  I panicked, pacing from one end of the porch to the other. Then I saw them. Droplets of someone’s life—a trail of red dots leading off the side of the porch and into the sea oat-studded sand dune.

  I followed the blood without thought—without hesitation—as if someone was pulling me by a rope. I trudged through the heat along an overgrown path, slapping oats aside. The drops stopped at the beach. I shaded my eyes, searching the long stretch of sandy shelf for signs of life. The sea rolled in and out. Gulls swooped and glided then landed on skinny legs. The piercing sun reflected on something shiny near my right foot. I bent over to get a better view, and then straightened, pressing my hand to my mouth. My vision faded…

  When I roused again, I was back on the porch. The bloody knife dropped from my unsteady hand.

  When did I pick it up?

  “Anson?” I hurled my panic into the ocean breeze. The wind whipped my hair about face. I rubbed the wetness from my eyes, straining to see far down the beach against the mid-day sun. But only sand and surf stretched into the horizon in both directions. Then my eyes locked on the crimson stains on my hands. I backed up, trying to escape the blood evidence. My foot caught on a loose board and I flailed, falling backward off the edge of the porch. A loud crack echoed in the night as my head hit the wood deck.

  ****

  My isolation was complete. Hunger rumbled in my stomach. My hands rubbed one over the other in an endless cycle of scrubbing. I perched on the edge of a deck chair, the knife on the table next to me. The blade mesmerized me, holding my attention for long minutes, maybe even hours. After I could bear to gaze at it no longer, I dragged myself to the bedroom.

  The sheets lay crumpled, just as I had left them that morning. The far-off squall of an approaching storm rumbled across the ocean as I fell onto the bed. The display on the clock blinked six thirty something. I shifted from my right side to my left. The aching pulse of my head wound ceased for a moment then resumed its throbbing.

  As the sun went down, the house grew dark. I longed for light. I stared at the lamp but made no move to turn it on. Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. Night fell quiet around me for a brief moment before footsteps thudded on the hardwood floor. My fingers clutched the sheet beneath me. I opened my mouth and closed it. The memory of the bloody knife stopped me from calling Anson’s name.

  Someone wanted me to pick up the knife. Someone wanted me to use the knife.

  I tiptoed toward the open bedroom door. A shadow moved down the hallway and through the entrance to the front room. Sliding along the bare wall, I crept closer to the front of the cabin and grabbed something heavy from the foyer. An umbrella stand. My knuckles glowed white where I gripped my makeshift weapon.

  I gained the front room and peeked around the corner. Shadows formed and dissolved and formed again, disappearing into the kitchen on the other side of the cottage. When I inched my head around the doorframe, the kitchen was empty. A flash of lightning illuminated the room for one brief moment before dousing the cottage in total darkness once again. I retreated to the front room. Footfalls clunked on the hardwood behind me. I twirled and stared into the darkened hallway. A loud thump echoed from the bedroom. I stifled a gasp and froze. My muscles cramped in my calves from standing still so long.

  No sound penetrated the dark night. I backed out of the house through the front door and bumped into someone. I screamed. She screamed. I dropped the umbrella stand as lightning from the approa
ching storm flashed across her face. “Marnie? What are you doing here?” I asked, placing my hand over my heart to slow its frenetic beating.

  “Where’s Daddy?”

  I shook my head, more to regain my composure than to reply in the negative. “I don’t know. I woke up this morning and he was gone.”

  “So you’re saying you don’t know where he is?” Her suspicion was palpable.

  I was too weary to play nice. “That’s what I said.”

  “So why didn’t you go back home?”

  Indignation ripped through me, beginning in the soles of my feet and exploding out of my mouth. “How? The car’s gone. My purse is gone. My cell phone is gone. I’ve been deserted out here. He left me with nothing, just like he left me alone the night—” I stopped, not willing to divulge more than I wanted her to know. “I’m afraid something happened to him.”

  “You expect me to believe he just left without saying goodbye?” She pushed past me into the cottage.

  I stepped into the doorway behind her. “We were talking…that’s the last thing I remember. When I woke up this morning, he was gone. I don’t feel so good. I think he might have given me something…” Verbalizing my suppressed fears opened the floodgates. Panic crawled over me.

  “Maybe this will refresh your memory.” She pulled the bloody knife from behind her back. The tip of the silver blade reflected in the shimmering moonlight. “Did you kill him…just like you killed my mother?”

  A flash illuminated the scene. Thunder crackled outside the cottage. My fingers spasmed and twitched. “I didn’t kill your mother.”

  “I think you did.”

  “Anson doesn’t think I killed her. Why do you?”

  “Of course he doesn’t believe you killed her. He’ll make up whatever he wants to protect his mistress.” Malicious intent—thoughts of murder—flashed in her eyes.

  “He didn’t cheat on her. She cheated on him.”

  “Liar.” The knife glimmered in her hand—poised for the kill.