All I Ever Wanted: Of Love and Madness, Book Three

by Cimms, Karen

  “He’s very much on your mind, isn’t he?”

  She couldn’t help but sigh. “I try not to think about him, but I can’t control my dreams.”

  “Perhaps not, but there can be messages in your dreams, especially in the instance of recurring dreams. When you have these dreams, try and write them down as soon as you wake, and we can try to determine what those messages might be.” Liz crossed her legs and gave her an encouraging look. “Can you think of anything right now?”

  Her mind went blank as if she’d been presented with a pop quiz on a topic she’d failed to study. She shook her head.

  Liz offered a gentle nudge. “There’s one thing that happens in every dream that’s the same: Billy fights the monster and rescues you. And each time, you ask him if the monster is dead, and he says ‘not yet.’ Right?”

  She nodded reluctantly.

  “Perhaps he can’t kill your monster.”

  “My monster?”

  “You said each time the monster comes toward you, Billy arrives and stops it. Perhaps you need to kill your own monster.”

  Her throat felt thick, and she struggled to swallow. She didn’t kill monsters; she kept the lights on to keep them away. She bolted her doors against them, hoping the more locks she had, the safer she’d be. She hid from them in attics where they couldn’t reach her. Or in bathroom stalls while they shot and killed innocent people. Or in other states four hundred miles away, where their words or actions could no longer hurt her.

  It was only a dream, yet the thought of facing the monster of her imagination terrified her all the same.

  “I don’t think that’s possible.” Her throat was so dry she had to force the words past her lips.

  Liz looked determined. “Yes, Kate. It is.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kate loved to cook, and Harold, it seemed, loved to eat. He showed up almost daily now, bringing her lobsters and clams. For her part, it was easier to give in and accept them, although she still cringed when cooking the lobsters. She tried out new recipes and froze what she could. She gave some to Liz or to Shane, but the bulk of her culinary creations went back to Harold, who was enjoying a steady diet of chowders, bisques, and the occasional lobster roll.

  She didn’t feel put upon or taken advantage of. She assumed Harold missed having someone to cook for him. And if she were being honest, she missed having someone to cook for.

  On a particularly sunny afternoon near the middle of May, she gathered up that morning’s efforts—two containers of Manhattan clam chowder, a tray of cinnamon rolls, and half a roast chicken; the other half would feed her for the rest of the week—and headed across the lawn.

  She transferred everything into one arm, rapped on the door, and waited. His Cadillac was parked in the driveway, so she knocked again. She was about to walk around back to see if he might be in the gazebo or working in one of his many flower beds, when the door creaked open.

  He was still in his pajamas, pale under his tan, and his skin was covered with a light sheen of sweat. His hair stood up as if he’d just climbed out of bed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m just feeling a little peaked.”

  “Peaked? You look awful.”

  She stepped past him into the front hall and set the food on a table in the foyer. Slipping into mom mode, she planted her palm on his forehead. No fever, but his skin was cold and clammy.

  He began to wave off her ministrations, but his hand dropped to his chest.

  “Are you having chest pains?” Her own chest tightened at the thought.

  His right hand gripped his left bicep. “Kind of.”

  Shit.

  She guided him to a chair in the foyer. “Where’s the phone?”

  “Kitchen. On the wall leading into the dining room.”

  It was easy enough to find. Chinese red, it hung on the wall in all its 1970s glory, with push buttons and an extra-long cord. She dialed 911, then stretched the cord until she could see Harold. He was leaning to the side, his elbow resting on a Queen Anne console and his head in his hand. What she knew about him could have been inscribed on the head of a pin, but she couldn’t imagine he was one to give in to illness easily.

  “Could you tell them to hurry,” she whispered into the phone.

  She hung up, knelt beside him, and took his hand in hers. “They’re on their way. It won’t be long.”

  Other than that, she didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

  The sound of sirens interrupted the stillness. She let the paramedics in, then stood in the formal living room off the front hall and watched helplessly.

  “Come with me,” Harold said, pulling off the oxygen mask and reaching for her from the stretcher.

  She let him take her hand and curled her fingers over his.

  “We’re sorry, Mr. Larsen,” the paramedic said. “There’s no room in the ambulance.”

  She made a split-second decision. “I’ll meet you there. I promise.”

  * * *

  Harold’s heart was fine. It was his pigheadedness that nearly did him in.

  Kate was sitting beside him in the emergency room when the doctor entered. She stood to leave, but Harold insisted she stay.

  “This is my daughter-in-law.”

  A bit dumbfounded, she mumbled a hello and sat back down.

  The doctor folded his arms across his chest and gave Harold a hard look. “The good news is you didn’t have a heart attack. The bad news, as you’ve probably already figured out, is that we spoke to your doctor, who told us you have pancreatitis. Dr. Ingraham tells me you were given a special diet several months ago, and it would be his guess that you haven’t been following it.”

  Harold’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth set in a thin, hard line. He wasn’t about to volunteer any details.

  The doctor glanced at Kate. “What’s he been eating lately?”

  More guilt—just what she needed. She prepared to rat him out on the cream soups and the more recent addition of homemade cookies and pies, but Harold cut her off before she even opened her mouth.

  “She doesn’t speak much English,” he said. “Barely a word. My son met her during the war.”

  War? What war?

  The doctor looked confused but didn’t pursue it. Kate, on the other hand, was too stunned to answer.

  When the doctor raised his voice, as if speaking more loudly would somehow bridge the language barrier with her, she had to press a finger against her lips to keep from laughing.

  “We’re going to keep you overnight just as a precaution. If everything checks out in the morning, we’ll send you home.” He finished his professional scolding of Harold and shouted his goodbye at her.

  As soon as the doctor left, Kate folded her arms and glared at Harold. “Daughter-in-law?”

  He shrugged. “They wouldn’t let you stay, otherwise,” he pointed out matter-of-factly.

  “Perhaps not, but—”

  “Shh!” He interrupted her as a nurse came in to prepare him for the move upstairs.

  Feeling more than a little foolish, Kate smiled blandly and watched as the nurse took his pulse and checked his blood pressure.

  “So what do I speak?” she whispered when the nurse had stepped out and pulled the curtain.

  “How the hell should I know?” he answered, as if it was the most ridiculous question he’d ever heard. “And before you ask, I watched a movie last night about Germany during World War II, and it was the first thing I could think of. I’m not exactly myself today.” He waved a hand over his hospital gown, as if she could have forgotten where they were and how they’d gotten there.

  “Now listen.” He motioned for her to come closer. “I assume you locked up the house. There’s a key under the flowerpot near the front door. You might as well keep it. You need to bring me a change of clothes, my toothbrush, and my book. It’s on the nightstand. I was just getting to the good part when you interrupted me.”

  Interrupted him? “You’re som
ething else, you know that?”

  Despite his sickly appearance and general grumpiness, there was still a spark of mischief in his eyes.

  “Tell me something I haven’t heard before.”

  * * *

  By the time Kate reached Harold’s house, the gnawing pang of guilt that had begun in the hospital had blossomed into a full-on onslaught. She tried to convince herself that it wasn’t her fault—how was she to know he had pancreatitis?—but guilt was an old friend and not one willing to easily abandon her.

  The soup and chicken were still sitting on the table by the door. She tossed it into the trash. The cinnamon buns would have been fine, but not for someone on a restricted diet. No wonder he had stifled her by telling the doctor and nurses she didn’t speak English. He’d made sure to keep her from asking pertinent questions about his follow-up care.

  “Well played, Harold,” she murmured.

  Other than earlier that day, she had never been inside Harold’s house, and she felt uncomfortable being there now by herself. The rooms were large and spacious, but the décor was dated. It probably hadn’t been changed since his wife died, which judging by the floral wallpaper and brass fixtures could have been the early nineties. Framed photos lined the mantel in the living room, including four eight-by-ten high school senior portraits. All boys.

  Everything in the house was neat and in its place except for the bed in the master bedroom, which was rumpled and unmade. She smoothed the covers and tucked the pillows under the dated chenille bedspread, giving it a final pat before grabbing his book, The Hard Way. She collected the trash bag she’d left in the kitchen, made sure the house was locked up tight, and ran home to walk Charlie again before she returned to the hospital.

  * * *

  When Kate entered Harold’s room a short time later, he wasn’t alone.

  “Is this your daughter-in-law?” the nurse asked.

  Harold nodded, and the nurse smiled at Kate. “Hello!”

  Given the volume of her voice, Kate assumed this nurse was also under the impression she spoke no English and therefore shouting would improve her comprehension. She nodded and rolled her eyes at Harold.

  After the nurse left, she unpacked Harold’s things.

  “So you like Jack Reacher?” She set the book on his tray table, next to what looked to be his untouched dinner. “Ironic.”

  “How is that ironic?”

  She tapped her finger on the cover. “The Hard Way. In your case, it should be The Hardhead.”

  Despite the dismissive sound he made deep in his throat, she caught the flicker of a smile.

  Hiding a smile of her own, she poked around at his untouched dinner. Filet of flounder that appeared to be seasoned with little more than a few grains of pepper, some steamed broccoli, and a scoop of parslied potatoes.

  “Yuck,” she said, replacing the lid.

  “Exactly.”

  “What about the soup?” There was a small bowl of what may have been chicken broth.

  “Fat-free, sodium-free? No, thanks.”

  “Jell-O?” She held up the cup, wiggling it to entice him as if it were homemade chocolate mousse.

  He made a face but accepted the offering, tore off the foil lid, and stabbed his spoon in angrily. He took a mouthful, then tossed it onto the tray.

  “I’ll starve to death if I’m here much longer.”

  “A little dramatic, don’t you think? Speaking of your death, why did you keep eating the soup I gave you? You should’ve told me you couldn’t have it. I’m dealing with enough guilt right now, I don’t need something else hanging—”

  She snapped her mouth shut and directed her attention to the items she’d just unpacked.

  “You need to eat something,” she said finally. “Even if it’s just Jell-O. Do you want me to ask if they have any other flavors, if you don’t like orange?”

  “You don’t speak English, remember?”

  “I forgot.” She frowned. “So what’s the plan? How long are you staying?”

  “It was a mild flare-up.” He pointed to the bag of IV fluids running into his veins. “If my enzymes and electrolyte levels return to normal by morning, you can pick me up around eleven.”

  “Oh, I can, can I?”

  “It’s the least you can do after almost killing me.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face and the beat of her heart quicken.

  The smug smile that had formed on Harold’s face faded just as quickly. “Sorry. That wasn’t funny. It’s not your fault. And it certainly wasn’t the soup. It’s my fault. I’m supposed to stick to a bland diet. I find that cruel and unusual punishment. Especially since you’re such a good cook.”

  “Thank you.” She struggled to steady her voice. “But you should’ve told me. I would’ve cut back on the fat and still made it taste good.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Maybe not, but what’s most important?”

  A young man came to collect the tray. Kate waited silently.

  “You didn’t eat,” the man said. “Do you want me to leave it?”

  “Blech.” Harold pushed it away. “Could you bring me a different flavor Jell-O? Like cherry or strawberry?” He glanced at Kate and scowled. “And maybe reheat the soup. I’ll try it again.”

  After the orderly left, Harold settled back against the pillows. He looked tired, but the color had returned to his cheeks. “So. What’s your story? Why are you hiding out up here?”

  Kate lifted her hands in the international gesture of ignorance. “Je ne parle pas l’anglais.”

  He broke out into a wide smile and laughed. “Touché.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  It rained for days. April showers were a month behind in Maine since spring had arrived so late. Outside Kate’s windows, the ocean matched the gray sky, but otherwise the world was a wet, vibrant green studded with a brilliant array of color. Daffodils bloomed along the base of the pines. Azaleas cozied up to the house in a riot of deep pinks and purples. Leaves sprouted on the dense beach rose hedge that lined the fence by the pool.

  Rain didn’t bother her. It made her nostalgic for the sound of a foghorn and filled her with memories of summer vacations, scampering over rocky ledges at Two Lights in Cape Elizabeth on rainy afternoons with Joey, searching for sea glass.

  The whitecaps dancing over the water in her cove called to her like a long-lost friend. Without giving herself time to think, Kate snuggled into a warm sweater, slipped into a raincoat and a pair of rubber boots, and headed for Portland. It was drizzling when she pulled up near Dyer Cove. The little lobster restaurant was still there, its parking lot all but empty on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. The beach was empty as well. Fog rolled off the ocean, blanketing the small cove.

  She locked the car and jammed the keys into the pocket of her jeans. A broken-down concrete abutment and a large piece of driftwood separated the parking lot from the beach. She climbed over the log and stepped onto the wet sand. The air was thick with mist. The foghorn was doing its job—two long, low blasts every half minute or so. It was loud but reassuring. Life should come equipped with a similar warning that would sound before you found yourself smashed and broken against the rocks.

  Thick fog swirled around her. The end of the rock ledge that separated the cove from open ocean had disappeared into the mist. The surf pounded the shore. The deserted beach was anything but quiet.

  Kate inched closer to the water, sidestepping the churning foam as it licked her boots. She bent her head against the light drizzle and scanned the shore for sea glass. A large piece of frosted white caught her eye. She snatched it up and squeezed it in her clenched fist. It made her think of the pink sea glass heart Joey had given her in a dream, the dream in which he’d convinced her it wasn’t her time to die and she should do exactly what she had done—come to Maine. It had only been a dream, or perhaps the result of her drunken excess, but it had seemed so real—so real that the memory was as sharp as the glass pressed in her hand now. />
  She spied another piece of frosted glass, pale green and almost as large as the first. Every time she tucked a piece into her pocket, she saw another and another. The rough seas of the past few days were making for a good haul. She was reaching for a piece of dark cobalt blue when a loud bark caused her to stumble and nearly land on her bottom in the wet sand.

  A baby seal lay partially in the water just a few feet away. It pushed up on its flippers. Each time the water rushed in, it shimmied further away.

  “Hey there, little fellow,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the crash of the waves but not enough to sound threatening. It had a sweet face, a cross between a walrus and a puppy.

  The seal kept its eyes on her and worked its way back into the water with the help of the incoming tide. Once it was buoyant again, it swam out from the shore. It stopped, gave her a look, then dove and came up a few feet farther away. Each time, it looked back to where she was standing.

  “You’re being coy, aren’t you? You’re a little flirt.”

  The seal dove and resurfaced farther away. It spotted her and barked. It floated for a while, watching her, then dived and resurfaced. It seemed as fascinated with her as she was with it.

  Even after it got far enough from shore to be swallowed up in the fog, Kate waited. When it didn’t come back, she made her way to the parking lot. Her jeans clung to her legs, and a fine layer of moisture seeped into her jacket. She was soaked through and felt the beginning of a chill, but her heart was lighter, thanks to the blessing of the little seal pup.

  The sky opened up just as she reached her car. She lifted her face. Rain washed over her, into her eyes and ears and down the back of her shirt, mingling with tears that had sprung from nowhere. How long she stood there, she wasn’t quite sure, but when she finally looked down, her heart had made a decision.

  She had touched the very bottom. It was time to rise up.