Was she crazy? Was this the first—well, maybe not the first—manifestation of being mentally unbalanced? The fearful thought shook her as it fought its way into her consciousness. Had her breakdown been just the beginning? Of what? Paranoia. More mental disturbances? Dementia? Was she going to end up like her grandfather?
She had never been able to forget…seeing him being carted off in a straitjacket. Eyes wild, hair askew, spittle dribbling down his chin. At the impressionable age of twelve, she’d had nightmares for months after witnessing that tragic scene.
The possibility of becoming mentally unstable made her legs give way and she sank to the floor. She covered her face with her hands, and sobbed until the tension drained out of her. After several minutes her head lifted and her chin squared. No, she was not going to let that happen. She would fight with every ounce of mental and physical strength she had to prevent the malaise that had clouded her grandfather’s mind from taking root in hers.
After she’d calmed down, she went into the bathroom to run a bath. While the water ran she moved to the bedroom and stripped off. She threw a towelling robe around her and, about to get in the bath, her glance strayed—as it often did—to the photo of Damian on the dressing table. It was facing the window. She could have sworn that it had faced towards the bed so she could see it as soon as she got up in the mornings. And her perfume bottles. She was fussy about keeping them in a neat row. Now they stood higgledy-piggledy on the glass dressing-table top. She frowned and then, as she looked at the wardrobe door, she saw it was ajar. It hadn’t been that way earlier on, she was sure of it. She distinctly remembered that she had put Simon’s jacket in the wardrobe and closed the door.
Someone’s been in the house!
Heartbeat thumping at an increased rate, she went from room to room, checking things. On the back verandah, where Simon had set up the easel in the hope that she’d start to paint again, a sketch pad and a box of pencils had been moved. All her brushes had been stuck in a glass, but now one lay beyond, on the table.
Shit, this was getting spooky. If someone was trying to scare her, they were doing a good job. But who would, and why?
Jessica checked the back door, the windows. She hadn’t bothered to lock them, didn’t think she needed to. She went through the cottage and locked everything. Damn! She remembered the bath. The water was halfway up the bath as she turned off the tap. God, she certainly needed a relaxing bath, but as she eased herself into the hot water, she was anything but relaxed.
Peculiar. That word fitted best. First, feeling as if she were being watched, then inside the house, various items being moved. Yes, it was very peculiar. No wonder her nerves felt jangled. She was jangled!
‘Simon, I’m not exaggerating. I know how I felt. Someone was looking at me and things have been moved in different rooms. As if someone were just checking the place out. It doesn’t make sense.’
Simon threw up both hands in a supplicating gesture. ‘I agree, Jess, it doesn’t make sense, and I’m not doubting what you think you experienced outside.’ He could see that her anxiety was real. Jessica was a level-headed person, not prone to dramatics, unless she was in the courtroom. If she believed things had been moved, then he believed her. ‘But who? You, I, we don’t know anyone here,’ he ruminated as they sat together on the lounge.
‘I don’t know.’ She looked at him. ‘Should we talk to the police?’
Simon thought for a moment, his features setting in a grim line. He’d have to tell them about Jessica’s problem, the breakdown, and once he did, they’d most likely believe she was imagining it all. ‘What can we tell them? We haven’t any real proof of anyone being in the house, just suspicions.’
After nodding agreement, Jessica voiced what she’d thought once she’d dissected the matter. ‘It had to be kids. You know the tricks they can get up to, especially with someone new. Little devils. If I ever find out who…’ Then she smiled, uncertainly, ‘I was scared shitless, you know.’
He drew her close. ‘I imagine you would have been. But just as a precaution, lock everything, even if you’re just out in the garden. Will you?’
‘Okay.’
It was good to have her in his arms. Tentatively he began to stroke her hair and, as he did, he half expected her to pull away from him, to retreat behind the protective shell she’d built around herself. She didn’t. He kissed her temple, her cheek, the side of her mouth.
She wriggled, turned to him, her eyes bright with unshed tears, a smile on her lips. ‘Oh, Simon, I haven’t been very nice to you since…since…’
‘Shhh, love,’ he whispered as he claimed her mouth.
Her body trembled against him, her warmth scorching through to his skin, spreading the heat, intensifying it. It felt wonderful. She felt wonderful, so pliant and receptive. He’d waited a long time…
Her breath fanned his throat as she snuggled closer, her arms sneaking up to twine behind his neck and tangle in his fair hair. His hand slipped up under her silk shirt and, since she was braless, he found her breasts with ease. He kneaded the soft mound, twirling the nipple between his fingers until it stood hard and erect. He grinned as he heard the little murmur in her throat, the sound she always made when he did what she liked.
His mouth found hers again, tongues dancing with each other, igniting the dormant, long-held-in-check passion inside him. In an abrupt movement he stood up, taking her with him. His eyes asked the question he chose not to ask out loud, in case it broke the mood.
Wordlessly, she smiled, then touched his cheek and gave an acquiescent nod.
On the bed, their bodies deliciously entangled. Simon took his time, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. Months of physical and emotional frustration made him want to drive into her, to reclaim her as his forever. But he kept control, wooed her, caressed her, reacquainted himself with all the nuances of her, the curves, shadows and softness of her body until, finally, his hand swept between her thighs and his fingers found the most sensitive part of her. She gasped with delight as he stroked her, fingers moving unerringly at their task, their goal being to bring her to a fever pitch of longing was very successful.
Soon she arched against him, writhing, making pleading little moans, while her own hands moved over his body with a restlessness, kneading, stroking, urging him on. ‘Simon, please…No more.’
‘No more?’ His hands stilled. ‘You want me to stop?’
No.’ She moaned again, her eyes half shut, her breathing laboured. ‘Don’t stop. Just…’
‘What?’ he teased, ‘what do you want?’
‘You, Simon. You. Inside me. Now.’
He kissed her long and hard, his tongue plunging into her mouth as a prelude to a deeper, more satisfying invasion. And then, with a sigh, he complied with her wishes. She was hot, slick, and ready for him and he plunged deeply into her waiting depths, his control almost gone. In an instant the rhythm of years of lovemaking took over—they knew each other’s bodies so well—and together they rode to the precipice of fulfilment and beyond.
Later, their torsos entwined, Jessica listened to Simon’s heavy breathing as he slept. For the first time in months, she felt a strange kind of peace. With a sense of shock and no small amount of guilt, she owned up to the fact that she had missed the physical side of their marriage. They had both become so busy, had been for months before Damian…And so the loving, the physical loving between them had been pushed into the background as less important than developing her career and, in Simon’s case, planning his precious project. She bit her lip in contemplation as the truth of it came to her. Why hadn’t she realised before that something had been and still was missing in their marriage?
She frowned, shocked by the admission. They were drifting. Apart. No—she instantly rejected that opinion. It was just that they’d been through an unusually stressful time, enough to put any marriage under pressure. But, now that her eyes were open to the problem, things would change. Yes, of course they would, she reassured he
rself.
She looked at Simon, saw the fine wrinkles around his eyes, the stubble along his jawline. He had survived Damian’s death intact, grieving privately, forcing himself to get on with the job he did best, healing sick people, while she had collapsed like a pack of cards. She gave a little nod of her head, sighing at the apt analogy. The trauma had tested their relationship, it could have destroyed it, but it hadn’t. She was indeed lucky. Lucky to have crawled out of the pit of depression that had gone close to crushing her spirit permanently.
Tomorrow was Christmas eve. She’d make them a celebratory dinner, with candles, if she could find any, to mark her resurrection. She sighed contentedly and snuggled into his back.
She stood outside the bedroom window, peering in through a shaft of moonlight which illuminated the sleeping couple, their bodies half covered by a sheet. She had unashamedly and dispassionately watched them make love. Noted the man’s tenderness, the woman’s need. The man was handsome enough in a soft sort of way, but he didn’t interest her. However, the woman did.
She had watched her work in the front garden, seen the suppleness of her body, watched her jaw set determinedly when a weed refused to budge. She had an interesting face though she didn’t consider her beautiful, not by her standards anyway. The woman’s eyes were interesting too, a true mirror of her feelings, she had discovered in her observations over several days. Beyond the surface blue colour, there lurked deeply entrenched pain. She sensed her fragile, emotional side, too, and her efforts to control it.
That was good, she decided. The woman had strength but a tragedy had weakened her, and she intended to use that weakness to get what she desperately needed.
Soon. It was only a matter of time.
Eyes closed, still half asleep, Jessica’s hand moved, searched the bed for Simon. She encountered nothing but empty space. She opened her eyes, blinked a couple of times, then saw the sheet of paper on his pillow.
Had to go in early for a meeting. You looked too beautiful to wake.
See you tonight. Love, Simon.
Jessica stretched, relaxed and stretched again. She felt rejuvenated, so alive. Rolling onto her side, she looked about the bedroom. The chair beside the table near the window, stood at an odd angle. Over the back of it rested Simon’s jacket and a tie. His shoes and socks were tucked under the chair. Something clicked.
She sat up, still staring at the chair. On the table lay one of Simon’s pads and a pencil. Reaching for it she began to sketch the domestic scene with bold, confident strokes.
In half an hour she had completed the pencil sketch. She placed it at the foot of the bed to evaluate the composition. Not bad, she decided, smiling. She still had it!
By the time Simon returned from the hospital, Jessica had done the preliminary work on her first water colour. Her easel was large, almost a metre long by two-thirds of a metre deep, and she had tacked a large piece of slightly coarse grained paper to it. Her subject was the view from the verandah which included the arched trellis near the back fence. Almost completely covered with blood-red bougainvillea vine, within the arch stood a partly opened rusting gate. It was stuck ajar as if beckoning anyone who wanted to, to walk through to the pastures beyond. Using a fine brush stroke, Jessica had lightly painted the scene in, preparatory to finishing it in detail.
Simon found her on the verandah. He stopped at the kitchen doorway to watch what she was doing. She had spread an old sheet over the floorboards because she tended to splash paint around a bit. Even her clothes, a loose shirt and jeans, were already spattered with a variety of colours. A pleased smile transformed the tired lines around his mouth. Jessica was painting! This had to be a turning point for her, he was sure of it.
He came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. She jumped with shock.
‘Sorry,’ he apologised into her ear, ‘I thought you heard me come in.’
She laughed. ‘I didn’t. I was concentrating on getting this right.’
‘It looks good.’
‘That’s what you always say about my work,’ she quipped, half sarcastically. They were both aware that Simon was no art connoisseur. The finer points of painting held little interest for him, though he was always supportive and complimentary of any work she produced.
‘True, but it…’ He sought the correct phrase, ones he had learned at a variety of art showings over the years. ‘It’s well composed, has good balance and colours and light.’ He gave her a hug. ‘What’s for dinner?’
Jessica’s brush stroke stopped halfway up the paper. Dinner! She had completely forgotten about food…And she had been going to make a special dinner too!
He chuckled. ‘Not to worry. I thought we might eat out. I booked a table at the place we went to last week, Annabelle’s at the Colonial. Seven-thirty. Lucky to get one too, it being Christmas eve and all.’
‘Thanks, Simon. Sorry. I quite forgot about the time.’
‘I’m glad you’re painting again, Jess. It’s a step in the right direction, I think.’
She looked at him and then back at the embryonic brush strokes of what would be her first landscape in several years. Absorbed in her task, the hours had flown, and for once, she had been able to keep thoughts of Damian deep in her subconscious. For several moments she felt guilty about that. It was only four and a half months. Shouldn’t she be grieving for him every minute of the day, with every breath she took, every movement she made?
Yes and, contradictorily, no. Whether she liked it or not, whether she wanted to be a part of it or divorce herself from it, life had to go on. She had become resigned to the fact that Damian had gone from her. Nothing she could do could change that. Oh, she could mope about forever, missing him, which she did, terribly, or she could tuck his memory into a private place in her mind and heart and get on with life.
She looked again at the easel, the lines, the soft colours. A trembling smile lifted the corners of her mouth. It seemed that she had made the decision without consciously knowing that she had, and so she would dedicate this painting to Damian’s memory.
Life in the Pearce family became more normal after Jessica made that self-revelation. They had a great time sharing Christmas Day with Nan Duncan and her family, the only sad part being soon after when they got home and the phone had rung. It was Alison and the family from Perth, wishing them a happy Christmas.
‘You’re sure you’re all right?’ Alison worried through the receiver. ‘I’ve been concerned, you know. You being so far away.’
‘I’m not always all right, but most of the time I cope.’ Jessica replied. ‘I’ve started to paint again, and I intend to get out and look at the island, find more subjects. Marcus…’
‘Who’s Marcus?’
‘Someone Simon knows. A psychologist who changed profession and now teaches history at uni in New Zealand. He’s told me some great places to visit.’
‘With Marcus?’ Alison wanted to know, her tone curious.
Jessica chuckled. ‘No. By myself, or with Simon. Marcus is too busy, he’s doing work, some historical stuff down at the cemetery.’
‘Cemetery.’ Alison clucked into the phone. ‘That’s one place you should definitely stay away from.’
Jessica sighed. She raised her eyebrows at Simon, who was only half listening to the conversation. ‘Yes, Alison, of course I will.’
‘Oh, by the way, your partner Max has convinced me that we, the Marcelle family in toto, should holiday at Norfolk next Easter. What do you think?’
Jessica’s forehead puckered in a frown. The cottage was small, she didn’t think it could cope with four extra people. ‘A wonderful idea.’ She forced enthusiasm into her voice.
‘Naturally, we’ll book in at a holiday apartment close by. That way you’ll have some peace while we’re there,’ Alison informed her in her brisk manner. ‘By the way, is the shopping as good as Max said?’
‘It’s excellent. By then I’ll be able to act as your personal tour guide.’
There was
a short pause, and then Alison said quietly, ‘Love, I put flowers on Damian’s grave every second week. I kind of thought you’d like me to do that.’
A tightness welled in Jessica’s throat. She had been good today. All day she had kept him tucked away in that special part of her brain. ‘Thanks.’ She blinked several times to push the tears back. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing all of you,’ she said over-brightly, ‘Easter can’t come fast enough now that I know.’
‘Okay, Jessica. Love to Simon. Be in touch soon. Bye.’
Jessica sat very still for a minute after she’d hung up the phone. Her eyes closed and tears pricked behind the lids. Oh, her sweet Damian. Mind pictures, memories engulfed her. At his first and only Christmas he’d been just six months old. He hadn’t understood what was going on, of course, what the presents in coloured paper were all about. He had just enjoyed rattling the paper, chuckling at the sound it made more than wanting to play with the fluffy bear and the educational toys friends and rellies had given him. Her hands curled into fists, trying to push the memories back before the depression came and took over.
She looked at Simon who’d fallen asleep on the lounge, hands stretched complacently over his full stomach. Marcus and Nan and her family had put on a wonderful traditional Christmas spread, and he hadn’t knocked anything back. He wouldn’t want any supper tonight, of that she was certain.
It had been nice to hear from Alison, she reflected. She missed her family. Keith, Alison’s husband, could be bombastic at times, cars were his passion so he talked almost incessantly about the latest models but, apart from that, he was good company. And her niece and nephew, Lisa and Andrew, well, they were teenagers and behaved accordingly, but the truth was that the Marcelles were the only family she had. Simon, too. He had a couple of cousins scattered about the Pilbarra and one in Darwin, but that was all.
Whispers Through the Pines Page 8