The Heat of the Moon: A Rachel Goddard Mystery (Rachel Goddard Mysteries)

by Parshall, Sandra

  “What’s wrong?” he asked hoarsely. “Look at me, Rachel. What is it?”

  I turned my head, focused for a moment on his chin before raising my eyes. His gaze mixed tenderness and desire. The moment of anxiety melted away, and without answering him I drew his head down and covered his mouth with mine.

  He began to move inside me. I locked my legs around him and buried my face against his shoulder as he made love to me.

  ***

  Afterward I lay in his arms, knowing that everything had changed.

  He brushed a damp strand of hair from my cheek and kissed my forehead. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.

  I skimmed my fingertips over the scratchy blond stubble on his cheek, my voice stolen by a clutch of unnameable dread. How easily he had become precious to me. How easily he might wound me, even unwittingly.

  For a moment he rubbed my back, his hand moving up and down in a gentle caress, then he said in a quiet voice, “What are you afraid of, Rachel? I can tell you’re afraid of something.”

  I pulled away and sat up.

  “You’re not still worried about this affecting your job, are you?” Luke said.

  I shook my head, but said nothing because I didn’t know what to say.

  “I wonder,” he murmured, almost to himself.

  His fingers traced the bumps of my spine. Suddenly wanting to cover myself, I tried to draw the sheet around me, but it was caught underneath us.

  He sat up beside me. His hand massaged my shoulder. “Have you been involved with somebody who hurt you?”

  I shook my head. No one had ever hurt me because no one had ever gotten close enough. I thought fleetingly of the other men I’d been with, two of them, guys my own age, totally wrapped up in working toward their futures, as self-absorbed as I was. A lot of fun, no demands, easy partings. We hadn’t made love; we’d had sex. No other man had touched my heart the way Luke did.

  “Whatever’s bothering you, I want you to tell me,” he said. He cupped my chin in his hand and turned my head toward him. “I’m falling in love with you, Rachel.”

  I stiffened. “How can you be sure of that? It’s too soon—”

  “It’s about time, I’d say. I’m thirty-six years old and I’ve never found anybody I wanted to be with, till now. I don’t jump into things like this. I’m sure about how I feel.”

  “But you hardly know me. Maybe I’m not the person you think I am.”

  “I doubt that. And we’ve got all the time in the world to fill in the blanks. I want to know everything about you, nothing left out.”

  Oh, do you? I could tell him a few things that might break his fall and send him off to find some nice uncomplicated girl with a normal family. If he recoiled—well, better now than later, when it would hurt me more.

  But I said nothing. I swung my legs off the bed. Where was my underwear? I scooped panties and bra from the floor, then sat still for a moment before I shifted to face him. “I’ve never been seriously involved with anybody before. I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed.”

  “Okay. I understand.” He touched my hair. “I’m not scaring you off, am I?”

  He laughed a little, but his eyes were filled with an apprehension that wrenched my heart. I put my arms around him.

  “Let’s take it one step at a time,” I said. “Please. For now. And just see how it goes.”

  He smiled with obvious relief and kissed my bare shoulder. “Sounds good to me.”

  Then his hand was on my breast, gently rubbing the nipple erect before gliding over my stomach and urging my legs apart.

  ***

  It was so late. I had to get home. I cleaned up as best I could in the bathroom, then pulled on my clothes.

  Luke was coming into the living room from the kitchen, two glasses in his hands. I took one, sipped cold tingly ginger ale, washing the taste of him out of my mouth.

  “Come on, sit down while you finish that,” Luke said. He gestured at the couch.

  “I’ve really got to go.”

  He frowned and smiled at the same time. “Your mother got you on a curfew, or what?” he said, then laughed as if to soften the question.

  I shrugged, dropping my gaze to conceal my embarrassment. “She’s a real worrier, that’s all.”

  I set the ginger ale on the coffee table and turned away from him, looking for my purse. My gaze fell on the cardboard cartons against the wall, big brown boxes with thick black words on the sides: clothes, sheets & towels, dishes.

  I stared at the boxes, the writing, as the image of another room struggled to take form in my mind. An unfamiliar room filled with boxes, taped shut and labeled and stacked, boxes everywhere, looming, higher than my head, a prison of boxes.

  A flood of panic nearly knocked me off my feet. I spun around, stumbled a few steps, and leaned on the windowsill to steady myself. One thought drummed in my head: I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to.

  I forced myself to focus on what was in front of me, what was real. Down on Leesburg Pike traffic had thinned to a few widely spaced cars; the nearby office towers had emptied, the sprawling shopping centers a few intersections to the west had closed.

  Luke gripped my shoulder. “Rachel! Are you all right?”

  “It’s late.” I sidestepped away from him. “Please take me home.”

  ***

  The front door swung open before I got my key into the lock. “I was beginning to worry about you,” Mother said.

  I brushed past her into the foyer. “I called you.”

  “But I didn’t think you were going to be this late.”

  “You could’ve called my cell phone number if you were worried.”

  “I don’t like to bother you.”

  I wanted to get upstairs and take a shower. Luke’s delicious odor clung to me, I could smell it, and I was certain she could too. I started up the steps.

  “That wasn’t Damian who brought you home,” she said.

  I stopped on the third stair. “No, it wasn’t.”

  Michelle appeared, coming up the hall from the kitchen, a half-eaten yellow apple in one hand. “So where’d you lose Damian?”

  Sighing, I turned to face them. “Damian took the hawk home with him. Luke Campbell was at the clinic, and he operated the x-ray machine for us. We went out for coffee afterward, then Luke gave me a ride home.”

  Michelle crunched into her apple, eyes sliding toward Mother.

  “Coffee?” Mother said. “All evening?”

  “Coffee and conversation,” I said. “Why the inquisition?”

  “Inquisition?” Mother exclaimed. “Can’t I take an interest in my own daughter?” Without waiting for a response, she added, “You went out with Dr. Campbell?”

  Oh God, there’d be no stopping her now. “Don’t jump to conclusions,” I said.

  “What’s he like?” Michelle asked.

  “He’s okay. Look, I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  I ran up the stairs and raced along the hall to my room.

  I couldn’t turn off my churning thoughts. Lying in the dark, I listened to showers running, watched the hallway light blink out under my door. My stomach rumbled. Maybe a glass of milk would help.

  When the house was silent, I crept out and down the stairs.

  Moonlight lay in silver bands across the living room and Mother’s study. I was in the kitchen before I realized what I’d just seen. I turned back. The door to the study stood open.

  I stepped across the threshold, a little breathless with the thrill of it. This was the third time in my life that I’d been inside this room. When Michelle and I were little girls, Mother had brought us to the door and given us instructions: never come in here without permission, never go near Mother’s private papers.

  The empty expanse of the desktop gleamed amid the shadows. Three oak filing cabinets lined up, tall dark rectangles, along the wall to my right. Close enough to touch. I trailed a hand down the smooth cool face of a drawer, looped my fingers over a handle,
tried to persuade myself the motion was casual and meaningless.

  I tugged. Locked.

  Privileged information inside, the case files of former patients.

  Did she keep a file about me, about my “case”? Had Mother been professional and methodical in recording her own daughter’s emotional trauma? I’d bet on it. Maybe that file had been here, but she’d removed it in the last few days, taken it to her office, and now felt safe in leaving the door unlocked again.

  Or maybe she was using reverse psychology, leaving the door open again to make me think the room contained nothing I’d want to see.

  But no, my mother wouldn’t go to such lengths to hide things from me. Would she? Something deep inside me, below the layers of respect and confidence and love, answered my suspicion with immediate belief.

  I backed out. I’d look for the file when I was alone in the house. When I’d figured out a way to defeat the locks. When I’d worked up the courage to read what I found.

  In the kitchen I poured a glass of milk with shaking hands and stood at the glass patio doors, watching the fox family sniff around on the moonlit lawn. Two adults with four young ones trailing. One adult raised its head and jumped back when it saw me. All six animals disappeared into the shadows beneath the trees.

  Chapter Seven

  Theo looked stunned. He stared at me across the wrought iron patio table. His cats, Helen and Sophia, lay limp on the sun-warmed bricks at our feet, enjoying one of the first summery days of the year.

  “How did you arrive at such an idea?” he asked.

  “It makes sense.” I’d thought so, anyway, until I’d said it aloud.

  “Is it what you want to believe?”

  “What I want to believe is beside the point! God, Theo, if you only knew how hard it is for me to even think about such a thing. But it fits, doesn’t it?”

  I pushed my iced tea glass aside and leaned forward, elbows on the tabletop. “Look, you never really knew him. You didn’t see what their marriage was like or what kind of father he was. Isn’t it possible he—” A wave of revulsion stopped me for a moment. “—he did something to me, and I’ve repressed the memories? Plenty of people say it’s happened to them.”

  Theo’s gaze roamed distractedly over the pyracantha espaliered to the high brick garden walls. The intense perfume of the plant’s tiny white flowers drifted on the air.

  “Tell me this,” he said at last. “Do you have sexual problems? Are you frigid? Afraid of sex? Do you dislike it?”

  Surprised by the intimate questions and his challenging tone, I drew back and folded my arms. “No. I don’t have any problems with the physical side of it.”

  His thick white eyebrows jumped, his eyes widened. “Do you have problems with the emotional side? Forming attachments, making commitments?”

  “I didn’t mean that.” It came out too sharp and loud.

  Theo’s voice was gentle. “I’m trying to help you sort this out. I’m not trying to hurt you or embarrass you or trick you into saying things you don’t mean.”

  I took a deep breath and released it. “I know.” He was waiting for an answer to his question, and I had to give one. I’d started this, after all. “If I met somebody I could trust—and love, of course—I could make a commitment.”

  He studied me for a moment, making me distinctly uncomfortable. “I notice you mentioned trust first,” he said. “Have you never been involved with a man you felt you could trust?”

  I shrugged, trying to appear casual, trying hard to keep Luke out of my thoughts. “I haven’t had any long-term relationships. When have I had time? Besides—” I laughed. “It’s not easy finding somebody who’d live up to Mother’s standards.”

  I instantly regretted saying that, and expected Theo to pounce on it. But he said, “The last time I saw you, you told me you had a new man in your life. How is that working out?”

  I shifted in my seat and watched a sparrow hop along the top of the brick wall. “It’s just a casual thing.”

  “And you want to keep it that way?”

  “Yes,” I said firmly. “For a lot of reasons.”

  “I see.” Again he paused to give me an appraising look. “Have you had a great many sexual partners? Would you consider yourself promiscuous?”

  “No, Theo. For heaven’s sake.”

  Relief showed in his quick smile. “I didn’t think so. Of course these things can be quite complicated, and I’m wary of oversimplifying, but sexual abuse—incest—leaves a mark, Rachel. One doesn’t come out of it unscarred.”

  “Look at me,” I cried, throwing out my arms and laughing helplessly. “I am scarred. If losing a chunk of my memory isn’t a sign of trouble, I don’t know what is.”

  He frowned, and took a moment to answer. “Still,” he said, “other explanations are far more reasonable, in my opinion.”

  Despite his words, I detected a strong undertone of doubt in his voice. He did believe it was possible that my father had sexually abused me. A sudden rush of bile to my throat made me cover my mouth and swallow hard. Both the cats had raised their heads, and two pairs of bright blue eyes were fastened on me, waiting for another exclamation or expansive gesture.

  If this awful thing was true, I thought, Mother had carried the burden of it alone for two decades.

  “Perhaps the real explanation,” Theo went on, “is simply that your mother is a complex woman who has found it easier to bury all of the past, good and bad, rather than be constantly reminded of the bad along with the good. I saw her do exactly that when she was my student. She made her family into objects of study, distanced herself emotionally. Then she put them out of her life.”

  Excited, I grabbed this slender thread of information. “What made her do that? What was so terrible about her family?”

  Theo sighed. “I’ve already said too much. I must ask you again not to put me in the position of betraying Judith’s confidence.”

  Frustration almost got the better of me and I was on the verge of lashing out at him when Helen, with a fluid leap, landed on my lap. She plastered her purring body to my chest. Stroking her, I silently reminded myself that I couldn’t push Theo. If I made him betray Mother’s confidence, he might feel compelled to betray mine.

  His voice became cajoling. “You’re not in a terribly unusual position,” he said. “Very few people are well acquainted with the facts of their parents’ lives. You should hear my patients trying to patch together coherent portraits of their parents. I myself have often regretted not learning more about my parents while I had the chance—”

  “Theo, I’m trying to learn about mine,” I said quietly.

  He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I said I would help you, but instead I only seem to be putting roadblocks in your path. I suppose I’m reluctant to see you become obsessed with these questions. With the past.”

  “You’re trying to protect me, just like Mother is. I know that. But now that I’ve started wondering about these things, I feel like I’ll go crazy if I don’t get some answers.” I hesitated, then added, “Would you hypnotize me, to see if I can pull out some memories?”

  My mother’s face rose in my mind, her sad reproachful eyes making me feel furtive and deceitful. But I had to do it this way. I didn’t believe Mother would ever tell me more about my father. I couldn’t press her; I was afraid the slightest touch on a tender area would make her withdraw from me completely. She didn’t have to know what I uncovered. She need never know.

  “Do you believe you can accept whatever memories you bring forth?”

  “Yes,” I said, hoping I sounded confident. I didn’t feel that way. I was less certain with every second that passed. I wanted this. I didn’t want it. Eager but frightened. What if I’d guessed right, and something unspeakable had happened, something I’d buried because it would destroy me if I faced it? The clutching pressure in my chest warned me to stop now.

  “You realize,” Theo said, “that what you recall may not be the literal truth? And you
must take into account the fragmentary nature of early memory.”

  I shook my head. I had no early memories, fragmentary or otherwise. “What do you mean?”

  “Few people can remember very much, if anything, before the age of two and a half to three. And childhood memory after that is seldom crystal clear or complete. It’s selective, and frequently confused. And sometimes highly inventive.”

  “Inventive?”

  “Children don’t see the world the same way adults do. They naturally give events a different interpretation, colored by their limited experience. That flawed and totally subjective view becomes cemented in place as memory.”

  “That sounds like we shouldn’t trust any childhood memories.”

  “No, not really. It’s our emotional perceptions that shape us, more than the literal truth. And emotions don’t arise without cause. They are certainly linked to reality at some level.”

  A woman’s sad tears, a man’s angry shouts, a child’s fearful cries. Were these my emotional perceptions of early childhood? Would I ever know what reality they were tied to? Before I lost my courage, I said, “I understand. But I want to do it.”

  “I’m going to insist that we wait a bit,” Theo said. “Two or three weeks, perhaps, then we’ll talk again. If you still want to try hypnosis, we’ll discuss it then.”

  I didn’t want to prolong this. I wanted answers now, I wanted to know what my father had meant to me, to my mother, my sister, and why he’d been erased from our lives and memories. But I had no choice; I had to wait. Theo was behaving ethically, the only way I could reasonably expect him to behave.

  This was the best I could get, and I took it gratefully.

  ***

  Mother must have guessed that I spent my evenings out with Luke, at dinner, at the movies, at his apartment, in his bed. But to my surprise she watched me coming and going and said nothing. Two weeks went by before she brought it up.

  I came home one night and found Mother and Michelle in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher and deep into a discussion that had probably been going on for an hour. They seemed not to notice me when I walked through the back door, or when I opened the fridge and took out a bottle of spring water. Pouring water into a glass, I listened to them talk about the delicate maneuvers required to communicate with borderline autistic children. Apparently Michelle had some hope of getting through to a girl at the institution where she worked part-time.