The constables stayed with her while she numbly made phone calls to arrange for someone to come stay with the children. She had gone to identify the body, still functioning in an unfeeling way. She had gazed down at the wax figure that so resembled her husband, wondering why anyone would take the time to make something so like Terry, yet so cold and somehow surreal.
“Yes, that's him,” she had said, meaning, Yes, that looks like him. It's a pretty good likeness. Now where is he, really? This joke has gone on long enough. But no one else seemed to think it was a joke. They were all acting as though Terry was really gone, that this cold statue was him.
Even as she made the arrangements for his funeral, spoke to the lawyer about Terry's will, accepted the tears and cards and words of comfort from friends and family, she didn't entirely believe the reality of it all. She walked through her days as though in a dream from which she would soon waken. But the days wore into weeks, and the weeks into months, and Terry never came back. The dream never ended.
She lived on their savings, cashed in retirement plan money to pay the bills, and functioned; an automaton that looked like Seren Baker but which had none of her drive, or humor, or passion for life. She was living but not really alive. The children, devastated by the loss of their father and the remoteness of their mother, turned to each other for support. As a result, Meggie, spending more and more time with her older siblings, was exposed to movies and TV shows that Seren would never have let her watch at this tender age.
One day, Seren was sitting in the living room, turning the pages of a magazine, not taking in much of anything, and idly listening to Meggie play with her dolls. Even at the age of four, Meggie had an active imagination, and was doing different voices for each of her ‘people'. A snatch of conversation caught Seren's ear.
“Why don't you ask your mommy to come play with us?” asked one voice, evidently a little boy.
“Oh, I can't. She died,” a little girl replied.
“I thought your dad died,” said the boy voice.
“He did. We were all sad, and then Mommy died, too. She's a Living Dead now. She walks around the house and looks like Mommy, but she's really dead inside. She's too scary to play with.”
Seren had had to leave the room. She lay on her bed with her head buried in pillows and gave voice to her grief for the first time. She wept for Terry's loss, her own loneliness, the death of her dream of growing old together. But most of all, she wept for what she had inadvertently done to her baby. She had been so determined to function, to be a strong image, that she had very nearly become only the image, with no substance. She had abandoned her essential self on the side of a country highway, mourning at the wreck of smashed-up car. She really was one of the Living Dead.
When she had cried out all the tears into her pillows, she had collected herself. “Meggie needs a mother,” she had told her reflection in her bathroom mirror. “So do Kari and Matt and Theo. So go be a mom!”
For the past seven years, she had done just that. Her strength came from her belief in herself, her knowledge that she could handle anything. There had been hard times, lean times, times of intense worry. But never again had she let despair overwhelm her. She worked out, went for bike rides with the kids, gardened. She threw herself into writing. Her first horror novel had sold remarkably well.
“Write what you know,” they said. She knew the horror of sudden death, of loneliness so vast, so consuming it was a monster by itself. She wrote of what she knew and the pain and terror came out on the printed page. Her money worries subsided to a quiet murmur. With subsequent books, life became increasingly easier, financially. Dealing with young teens was a different story, but she had regained her sense of humor, and was able to cope.
The passing of the years had brought some healing of the wound, although it was still there, buried and aching sometimes. She never let her children see her continuing loneliness, but carried that burden alone. Seren had enormous reserves of inner strength, but the past two days had drained them dry.
She let it all out; her confusion about this place, her worry for Devany, everything that had hurt or upset her for the past seven years, all poured out onto Daffyd's shirt. She was only peripherally aware of his arms around her, the feel of his beard against her temple, the sound of his voice in her ear. As the tempest passed, and the torrent of emotion receded, the reality of his presence impinged on her conscious mind. She felt his solid bulk under her hands, the warmth of his chest against her cheek. His voice soothed her weary soul. She hugged him fiercely and looked up into the summer blue eyes.
“Thank you,” she said simply. She wanted to say so much more; to tell him that she knew how difficult it was for him to do this for her, that she understood his aversion to women, and that mere words couldn't begin to express her gratitude for his caring, unselfish behavior. But somehow, the words wouldn't come. She repeated herself, “Thank you.”
His face was so kind, his expression so warm and tender, she wanted to reach up and kiss him. Oh, what a good idea. He's actually got his arms around you, without bolting, and you want to chase him off ... but oh, those eyes, and that mouth. It was a struggle to keep her composure.
Daffyd's lips twitched in his little smile. “Are you feeling any better, now?” he asked gently.
“Yes, thanks,” she wiped her cheeks with one hand, the other still firmly holding onto him.
“You missed that spot again,” he said, and dried it with his thumb. “You're sure you're all right?”
She nodded and stepped out of the circle of his arms. “Yes, pretty sure. Thank you again, Daffyd. You ... you're ... you.” She laughed shakily and tried again. “You're so good. I think you might be the most decent man I've ever met.”
His expression became wry, his smile crooked. “Thank you for saying so.” He wondered what she would think of his decency if she knew his secret. He supposed the possibility existed that she would still like him, admire him, but it had the probability factor of his flapping his arms and flying home.
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* * *
CHAPTER 24
Marie threw the tabloid angrily down on the kitchen table. “Would you like to explain this?” she demanded.
Jessica sipped her coffee, carefully reading over the headlines. She debated whether to feign ignorance, but decided that honesty might be in order. Before she could open her mouth, Marie, her sense of outrage and injustice inflamed, spoke again. “You told me you were going to the police!” She almost shouted. “You told me you weren't going to do the story. You said you would wait! WHAT IS THIS?”
Jessica adopted a patient, how-can-I-explain-this-to-a-civilian tone that only served to enrage Marie even more. “I did go to the police, baby. You remember. I told you about it. They didn't believe my story and wanted to see the vid. Well, if I gave it to them, they'd just keep it for evidence, wouldn't they? And then, where would I be? Where would we be? We'd have nothing and the cops would make a fortune off my video, and you know what I went through to get it.” Her story wasn't the complete truth. She had actually gone into the police station in charge of the investigation and chatted with the desk sergeant for a while. She had even made an oblique reference to ap Owen's sexual preferences, and that it might be worth while to check out known hetero hangouts. She made no mention of the video, or her encounter with him. Then, conscience assuaged, she had gone to the office and called the publishers of several of the tabloids to arrange a lucrative sale.
Marie glared at her. “So you published the stills from it.”
“All I did was write the story, and supply the pics. Falling Star published it. They were the highest bidder. Do you know that ten papers bid on it?” She gloated, oblivious to her spouse's outrage.
Marie forced herself to remain calm. She had never wanted so much to strike someone as she wanted to hit Jessica right now. “Why are you acting so stupid? Who do you think you're fooling? You went ahead with the story after we agreed that you woul
dn't. You hid it from me and you lied to me ... again!” The betrayal was starting to sink in, the old hurts becoming one with the new.
“First of all, we did not agree. You agreed. I just said that I would go to the police, and I did. You want to know how much money we have now? Right now? Sitting in my bank account? A bundle, honey. A big, sucking bundle.”
Marie made a face of distaste at the crude expression. Jess knew she didn't like language like that. “I don't care,” she said. “What I do care about is that you lied to me. You hid something important from me, and you've ruined the name, probably the life, of a decent, talented, wonderful man!”
Jessica leapt to her feet. “He's a pig! He's a disgusting pig! Don't you remember what he wanted to do to me? He's grotesque ... a freakin’ throwback! He deserves every bad thing that can happen to him, and if he's killed himself, he shoulda done it sooner!”
Marie stared at her in horror. “You don't mean that! How can you possibly say that? He didn't do anything YOU didn't lead him to believe was welcome! He didn't force you; he didn't shove it in you; he didn't even let you open his pants and touch it! You lied to him, led him on, and now you hope he's dead?”
Her eyes brimmed with tears of disappointment and dismay. She had never felt so hurt and betrayed. Jessica had done some unethical and even sometimes unpleasant things, but this ... this was unforgivable: not only the cruelty of exposing Daffyd ap Owen as a twist, but the lying, the deceit. After the last round of Jessica's lying, Marie had threatened her with desertion if she did it again. And this was so much worse than anything she had ever imagined.
She walked out of the room, ignoring the demand that she return. She went into their room, and hastily threw her clothes from the dresser into a suitcase. Then, with another bag in hand, she went to the baby's room. With Jessica screaming at her not to be such a bitch, she packed all of Daphne's clothes, and some of her toys. She ferried the bags to the door of the apartment. Then she dressed Daphne warmly, and tucked her into her carry sling.
Jessica stood near the door. “And just where do you think you're going?” she asked, a sarcastic sneer on her lips.
“Away from you,” said Marie quietly. She took her warm wool cape out of the front closet and wrapped it around herself and the baby. Jessica moved to block her exit.
“Shall I call the police and have them lock you up overnight? Again?” Marie stared coldly into Jessica's eyes.
Jessica jerked the door open. “Get out, then,” she hissed. “Get out, and stay out!”
Marie picked up the suitcases and walked out into the hall. “I intend to,” she said. “You're so much less than I thought you were.”
The words stung, and Jessica slammed the door. She kicked the wall and cursed Marie's unreasonable nature. Then she returned to her coffee. She had a follow-up article to write about the wretched freak, ap Owen.
Marie took the elevator to the ground floor. She hailed a taxi and gave the destination to the driver. She sat in the comfortably padded seat, and cradled Daphne, tears raining down onto the baby's colorful snowsuit. The driver glanced at her from time to time in the rearview mirror. She seemed like a nice young woman, and he hated to see people unhappy.
He dropped her off at a comfortable house in the Notre-dame-de-Grâce area. He helped her carry the bags to the door. She paid him and tipped him generously. He waited a moment to make sure she got inside all right before he drove away. Marie stepped into the familiar vestibule and tucked her key back into her purse. She opened the inner door, and entered the house.
“Hello! Anyone home?” she called. Her father came down the stairs.
“Marie!” His surprise was evident in his voice. “What brings you here?”
“I came home, Papa,” she said. She wiped away a tear. “It's a long story. I'll tell you later. Can I stay?”
“Of course you can!” He took her heavy cloak, hung it in the hall closet. “Mum,” he shouted. An elderly woman entered from the dining room where she had been working on a jigsaw puzzle.
“Marie!” She embraced her granddaughter and took the baby to fuss over and pamper. Alec Lamère ushered his daughter into the kitchen. He busied himself making tea, hoping against hope that this time Marie was done with that no-good Jessica forever. He made the supportive and sympathetic sounds she needed to hear, but his heart sang as her story unfolded. It certainly seemed she was free at last! Thank Heavens! He told her that she was brave and wonderful and of course she could move home. There was lots of room, and Ethel, his mother, would be thrilled to have her and Daphne there. Marie hugged him and cried and was half-happy for the first time that day.
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* * *
CHAPTER 25
When Seren and Daffyd walked into the living room, Reznik and Rapsim had already made themselves at home. Gerri was sprawled on the couch, her head on Daffyd's pillow from the previous night, and Rapsim was in the chair by the window. He had picked up the yarn and the half-finished item and was doing something Daffyd couldn't quite make out. It seemed to involve a cluster of small pointed sticks. When Seren glanced down, she realized he was knitting a sock, and was just coming around the curve of the heel.
“How is she,” asked Reznik, sitting up to make room for the others. They sat down gratefully, Daffyd maintaining a few careful inches between him and Seren.
“She's still sleeping,” said Seren. “Daffyd thinks she's trying to withdraw from all this—to sort of give her mind a chance to assimilate all the new information.”
“I quite agree with him,” said Rapsim. “It's not an uncommon response in many species, especially in the young. When a situation is too strong, too much to be handled by the person's coping mechanisms, the mind often seeks refuge in sleep. It allows the subconscious, which has much better resources than the conscious mind in many instances, to process each bit into something the awake mind can accept. She's probably having some very interesting dreams.”
His calm voice, added to the visual effect of his sitting and knitting, helped to quiet Seren's concern.
“How long do you think she'll sleep?” she asked.
“It's hard to say. P'haps a day, maybe two. If she's not awake by this time tomorrow, we'll find some way to get her alert and fed.” He looked down at the work in his lap.
“Daffyd said the same thing,” Seren said.
“He's a wise man,” said Rapsim, glancing up briefly. Daffyd smiled his little smile, with an assumed arrogance to his expression that amused Seren. He was inwardly pleased at the compliment. Seren startled him by patting his thigh.
“I've been learning that about him the past twenty-four hours,” she said, and looked at him with growing respect and affection. A strange, but somehow familiar noise suddenly sounded. Reznik laughed.
“Sorry,” she said. “Rumbly in my tumbly. All we've eaten since yesterday is fruit.”
Seren's mom-nature jumped into action.
“Oh, you poor things! Come on out to the kitchen and we'll put something together.” She stood up and led the way. “Daffyd, would you bring up some bread from the freezer?” She stopped in the doorway to the dining room. “Wait. We still need to bring that milk from the barn. Okay, Daffyd, if you would get the milk, I'll raid the freezer and the root cellar for lunch fixins.”
“I'll give you a hand, Seren,” offered Reznik. “I'd like to see more of this place.”
“Sure,” said Seren. The four of them descended the stairs to the basement. Reznik and Rapsim looked around in astonishment. Rapsim's quick eyes took in the anachronisms evident everywhere. Daffyd headed for the door to the barn tunnel. Rapsim followed him, surreptitiously recording everything with the multi. He'd study it all later. For now, it was enough to gather information.
Seren took two loaves of bread out of the freezer and put them on the steps leading upstairs on her way past to the root cellar. Reznik followed.
“Wow,” she breathed when Seren turned on the light. “Look at all this stuff!
Doesn't look like we'll be going hungry anytime soon.” She wandered around the room, peering into barrels and looking at everything. “This is absolutely incredible!” She turned toward Seren. “So what are we gonna make to eat?”
“Something easy,” said Seren. “Daffyd was supposed to make supper tonight, but I think I'll let him off the hook. If we make a big enough meal now, it should tide us over, don't you think?”
“Oh, yeah. It's closer to supper time than lunch, anyway, I'm sure.” She examined the food hanging from the ceiling. “How about sammitches?” she suggested, reaching up for something very like a salami. “This looks good.”
“I wonder if it would go with this cheese,” said Seren, holding up a small, waxed wheel. “At least, I hope it's a cheese.” She laughed.
“Sounds good so far. Now, what about salad or veggies or something like that?” said Reznik.
“We can raid the garden and get something,” replied Seren. “You think wine would go with salami and cheese and vegetables?”
“I don't care if it goes or not, it sounds perfect all by itself,” Reznik grinned. “You know, I didn't start drinking wine until about a two years ago, but I really like it.”
“I sure could use a glass or two, after the past couple of days,” Seren smiled back. “We'll get Daffyd to choose. I have the feeling he's something of an expert.”
Reznik, being a good five inches taller than Seren, lifted down the meat from the hook in the ceiling. Seren carried the cheese, and together they left the room. They encountered Daffyd coming through the door from the tunnel with the heavy milk can. They moved quickly out of his way so he could put it in the cool cellar with the rest of the food. He heaved a sigh of relief as he set the almost-full container down.
“Might I suggest we leave that down here, and just bring up what we need?” he said, arching his back. “I know I saw a milk pitcher somewhere.”
“Sure. Right now, though, how'd you like to choose a bottle or two of wine for us all?” Seren asked.
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