by Rosa Sophia
Amalie felt a slight depression near her feet as Zoey jumped up on the mattress and curled up between them. They were quiet for a long while, after Amalie described the entire nightmare.
“So, let me get this straight.” Ian’s voice was soft and sleepy-sounding in the pitch-black room. “You think you saw your own death?”
“Yes, in the past. Roseanne told me I would know eventually what all this meant.” She placed a kiss on his chest through his pale blue t-shirt, breathing in his scent. “I still don’t completely understand it. I know I’m remembering a past life we shared, and I feel like there was so much more…like I’ve known you forever. We’ve probably had many lives together. But why am I remembering this now? Why don’t you remember? What’s the significance? What’s the point?”
“To learn from it.”
“But what? I just don’t understand.”
“You will.”
“I wonder who that man was. The man who killed me.”
“What’d he look like?”
“That’s the thing.” Amalie stretched her arm across Ian’s chest, then leaned up and kissed him gently on the neck. “I don’t know. I’ve seen him in a lot of my recent visions, but I can never remember what he looks like when I wake up. I remember he was killing animals. To sell, or to eat, or both. I know he lived in the forest wherever we were. But when I try to think back, I just see this shadowed face, this darkness. He’s dangerous. I’m thinking I didn’t know how dangerous he was until it was too late. And then I couldn’t tell you how I felt.”
“Well, it’s all over now, and we’re together again.”
“But what if it’s not over? I can’t understand why I’m remembering these things.”
Ian shifted to his side and pulled her against him. For a brief moment, Amalie was only aware of his warmth. She pressed her body close to his, taking in the scents she was so familiar with—yesterday’s cologne, the smell of his skin, the delicate hint of fabric softener that remained on his shirt.
She ran her hand along his chest, then down until she reached the hem of his t-shirt. Slipping beneath his shirt, she moved her fingers along the smooth, soft skin of his stomach and up his chest, playing her fingers through the fine hairs she found there.
“I miss you when I’m in my room,” she whispered.
“I know you’re not used to sharing a bed with someone.” He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips. “But my room is your room too. I want you to feel comfortable here. You can be here with me anytime you want.”
“Mmm.” She reveled in the feeling of his kisses on her neck, close to her jaw. She felt him move down to nibble close to her collarbone, sending shivers up and down her body. Goose bumps rose on her flesh.
“Where were we?” Ian’s whisper was hoarse, the words strangled by the desire overcoming them both.
“What?”
“Where were we, in your dreams?”
She felt the fabric of her tank top lift, and she moaned softly in anticipation, the visions flashing back to her.
“I think it was Ireland. And I think being at The Breakers when I first met you…reminded me of the house…the mansion you lived in.”
“Ireland.” He slid down against her, his weight pressing her into the mattress.
“Oh, Ian.” Amalie took a deep breath, her eyelids fluttering. “I want you.”
She was so relaxed her mind drifted from reality to dreams, always coming back to Ian, to the tenderness of his body so close to hers, to the heat and the desire building inside her.
The silence of early morning pervaded after they made love. Ian settled beside her, and she tucked herself against him, feeling safe in his embrace. If her visions were true—and she was certain they were—then she had finally found him again. They were together, and nothing could keep them apart.
As she drifted off to sleep, thoughts of the faceless Woodsman haunted her. She saw her death over and over, her body crumpled on the rocks. A thought occurred to her as she slipped between sleep and wakefulness.
If Ian could return to her in another life, what of the Woodsman?
Chapter 29
The next day, Amalie came into her office to find a handwritten note on her ink blotter.
Am,
Hope you’re doing okay. You’ve been distant lately. My motherly instinct is kicking in. I won’t force it though. You can tell me more about what’s going on when you’re comfortable. Maybe lunchtime?
Amalie shook her head and laughed at Joy’s comment. She had everything scheduled and organized in her planner, even matters of the heart.
Until then, I’ve got a great project for you. You’ll find it in your inbox. We just signed with Jackson Salvatore for his next book, an anthology of short stories about living in Palm Beach County. Just wanted you to have some good news. Congratulations!
Love,
Joy
Amalie stared at the note for several long seconds. Her heart raced. She tossed her sport jacket on the back of the armchair in the corner, then kicked off her high heels before sitting behind her desk.
“Holy shit,” she whispered.
Jackson Salvatore had been one of the speakers at the dinner charity presented by the Palm Beach Literacy Advocates, the event she’d attended when she bumped into Ian for the first time. A warm glow passed over her as she recalled the events of the early morning.
To proofread one of Salvatore’s books—to work with him side by side—was a dream come true. He knew everybody and had connections in every part of the industry. With Jackson Salvatore on her resume, she’d get better freelance jobs for more money—or so she hoped. Maybe this would help push her savings account past two thousand.
She was about to let loose a celebratory “Eek!” when a knock came at her door.
“Come in,” she called, trying to retain her composure.
“Hey, star editor!” Garrett stepped into the room and winked one of his long eyelashes. He was wearing a suit, this time with a colorful tie. When he caught her staring at the adornment, he laughed. “I thought I’d wear one of my crazy ties today,” he explained. “I know it’s not casual Friday, but I was feeling a little wild.”
“Garrett, we don’t have a ‘casual Friday’ in this office. Every day is casual.” She turned and booted up her computer. It whirred to life as she leaned back in her chair, waiting for the password screen to pop up. “I came to work in sweatpants once and Joy didn’t even bat an eyelash.” Amalie blushed when she realized she’d used this turn of phrase because she couldn’t stop staring at Garrett’s eyelashes. They were so striking sometimes it looked like he was wearing eyeliner.
“Would you like to celebrate your victory? Vince and the Fat Cats are playing at the Square Grouper tonight. How about going with me?”
“Um, I don’t think so.” She was tempted, but she immediately thought of Ian, who would never approve. She thought of Garrett as a friend—not a close friend—but even so, hanging out with him around alcohol and lowered inhibitions was a definite no-no.
He looked disappointed.
“You know, Amalie, we had a great time at that staff get-together a while back. Ever since, I feel like you’re avoiding me.”
“No, I’m not avoiding you.” She shuffled some papers on her desk and typed her password into the computer. Of course I’m avoiding you.
“Well, I’d really like to spend some time with you and get to know you more. So if you change your mind about tonight, let me know. It should be a great show.” When she didn’t reply, he cleared his throat, and said he had to refill his coffee mug and get back to work.
When she was alone, Amalie sighed and leaned back in her chair.
Why do I feel guilty whenever I can’t please someone?
She felt as if she should have said yes, but saying yes would have meant wronging Ian. She didn’t even want to spend time with Garrett, but she hated disappointing people. She hadn’t even told him she was seeing someone.
***
Amalie arrived home from work late that night. Sometimes she’d come home and dinner would be on the stove, getting cold. Ian was so loving, and such a good cook, but he’d given up waiting for her. They tried to enjoy their meals together, but their schedules were often too busy.
She’d told him about growing up in Maine, how they’d never had family dinners. He’d kissed her on the forehead and turned to stir what was cooking on the stove. She remembered his words clearly.
“You have a family now. We’re together. And we’re going to have plenty of dinners together.” He’d turned and looked at her pointedly. “I promise.”
The door shut behind her as she entered the condo. She heard Zoey’s claws clicking on the floor as the cat rushed up to greet her. Stepping into the short hallway, she glanced into the kitchen. There was nothing on the stove. Everything was as pristine as she had left it that morning. Her heart sunk a little. She had been hoping Ian was cooking dinner for her. She hadn’t seen his car in the lot, but sometimes he parked on the street when the spaces were filled up. The living room was empty as well, and as she walked through the condo to her bedroom, she knew she was alone.
Being alone had never bothered her before, or so she’d thought. Being with Ian gave her a different perspective. Sure, they both worked a lot, and when he was home he didn’t always have time for her. But his presence gave her a comfort she couldn’t describe. She didn’t like seeing his room empty. Sometimes, when she missed him, she would sit at his desk. Then, seeing the mess around her, she would busy herself cleaning up scraps of paper and making his bed. It all felt very silly to her, and she sometimes wondered if she was operating on autopilot—doing all the things for Ian she had once done for her father.
She could hear Ian’s voice in her mind, admonishing her for cleaning his room or picking up after him. “You don’t have to that,” he’d say, narrowing his eyes at her. But it was a habit, taking care of him. A small part of her knew that, and knew where it came from, but was reluctant to give it up because it felt so comfortable.
She could see the sun setting over the parking lot. Tired from her day at work, she stretched out on Ian’s bed, and fell asleep.
***
The pillow was soft and silky against her cheek. She awoke without opening her eyes, running through the bizarre dreams she’d had, continuous images of the Woodsman, her own death in the past, and the strange brooding man who was now Ian Gardner.
For a moment, she didn’t know why she’d woken up. Then she realized she’d heard a door slam. Sometimes noises from other condos carried, but she didn’t think the noise had come from outside. She heard footsteps, unsteady, then a stumble. Something bumped against a wall. Opening her eyes, Amalie saw the shadow of the coffee table, a glint of Zoey’s eyes in the dim light coming in from the parking lot, and the other dark shadows that outlined Ian’s desk and chair, and a workout bench.
She turned and saw the clock. It was a little after two in the morning. Then it registered she was alone in the bed, still wearing her business slacks and blouse. Where was Ian? She heard more footsteps, then the bedroom door creaking open. When she saw the dark shadow step into the room, her vision still foggy from sleep, her heart skipped a beat. For a brief, terrifying moment, she imagined the Woodman standing there, a hunting knife in his hand. When she realized it was Ian, she relaxed, half sitting and leaning on her elbow.
“Ian, it’s so late, where’ve you been?” she said between yawns.
“Out.”
A chill made her shiver. An odd silence pervaded the thick air, and Amalie suddenly felt as if she were separate from everything, cut off from the universe. Even the light from outside seemed dimmer, and she wasn’t sure where Zoey had gone. She wished the cat were in her lap, purring contentedly, reminding her everything was okay.
The visions pushed through one reality and into the next, confusing her, making her think she was still asleep. His voice had sounded deeper somehow, heavier, filled with pain. His frame, usually thin and muscular, had taken on a different shape in the darkness, and she could have sworn she saw the man from her past, the one who’d screamed out his rage, loved her and then discarded her, continually returning to her and hurting her again.
The word was out of her mouth before she even knew what she was saying.
“Malachi.”
She squeezed her eyes shut when harsh light invaded her retinas, then she blinked repeatedly. Ian had turned on the light by his desk. The room was flooded with a white, almost clinical brightness that made Amalie cringe. She’d always hated that lamp, and she turned it off every chance she got, favoring the small desk light on Ian’s dresser. The sharpness of the light made the nerves in her face ache.
Ian was wearing his white long-sleeved shirt, hanging open and unbuttoned, a white t-shirt beneath it. He’d spilled something on the right leg of his normally spotless tan slacks. His blond hair was a little mussed up. Beneath his glasses, she spotted bloodshot eyes. He looked irritated, perhaps because he was getting home so late. She climbed off the bed and went to him, kissing him on the cheek when he turned his head. He didn’t reciprocate, nor did he put his arms around her. She wasn’t sure what to think—until she smelled his breath.
“Ian, where were you?”
“I went out. With some people, a few guys from the office.”
“Are you drunk?” She withdrew her hands from his chest, wanting so badly to touch him, but suddenly unsure of herself.
“No, I’m not drunk.” He sneered. “What the hell are you asking me that for?”
“I just…I’m sorry. Ian, I can smell it.”
“Give me a break.” He slipped out of his shirt, then pulled off his t-shirt and tossed it on the desk chair. “Go back to bed.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re lucky I respect you so much.”
The bitterness of his tone made Amalie stop for a moment. She stood still as he undressed. Then he turned out the light and climbed into bed. She heard him shifting around for a moment as Zoey curled around her legs.
“Well? Are you going to stand there all night?” he snapped.
“No.” Her voice was a soft whisper. “I’m going to bed.”
Rather than join him, she turned and left the room, wrapping her arms around her slim body. Maybe it was the wake-up call she’d needed. Ian had never come home drunk at a late hour, but there were always a lot of empty bottles in the recycling bin. She remembered when she was a kid, covering up for her father’s embarrassing mistakes, telling her friends he was just feeling sick, or that he was weird.
She thought about all the times Ian had forgotten about dinner, or burned it because he was too distracted by his fifth or sixth beer to notice. Maybe it was because she’d been dealing with it all her life that she didn’t question it.
Not even a few weeks back, she’d come home from a Saturday out with Joy and found Ian in the kitchen fumbling with something at the stove. He’d just finished making his own dinner, but he’d neglected to eat it right away. He left it covered and opened another Budweiser. She didn’t question it; she’d been used to it with her father, and now Ian was the same way.
They always sat together and watched television in the evening. She recalled the night he couldn’t keep his hands off her; she’d been exhausted and just wanted to rest. They hadn’t crossed that line yet, not at that point. Amalie wasn’t ready. But he’d begun by kissing her neck, and she could smell the beer on him. The alcohol seemed to be an aphrodisiac, and he couldn’t stop touching her. If he’d been sober, she would have wanted it. Instead she wished he would stop, but she was afraid to say no, worried she would upset him.
Her clothes were an obstacle he couldn’t abide by. She recalled how he’d pulled her shirt roughly upward, exposing her bare breasts, then sucked and bit her nipples until they were hard between his lips. He’d tugged off her jeans, and tossed them aside.
As he sat on the couch and she stood naked before him, he ran his hands along each supple thigh, kiss
ing every inch of flesh he could reach. She’d gasped as he slipped his hand between her legs, cupping her sex and rubbing her until she was nearly pushed to the edge. He’d drawn her forward, and she poised herself on top of him.
She couldn’t recall the exact moment she’d realized something wasn’t right. Maybe it was when she’d moved her arms to clutch the top of the couch with her fingers and accidentally knocked over an empty beer bottle, smashing it against the faux wood floors. Maybe it was when she’d noticed his eyes were red and shadowed. She felt used, dirty. Like a whore.
He plunged into her, grunting when they’d become one. He kissed the nape of her neck and sent shivers all along her body, making her respond with each wanton thrust.
She recalled thinking, he’s so drunk, and what if he doesn’t remember this?
Curling up on her bed and losing herself in the memory, she realized that’s what made her uncomfortable—the thought that a moment of passion would be forgotten, made meaningless by a haze of alcohol.
She’d pulled away, and he’d moaned in desperation, clutching her hips, wanting more.
“I can’t,” she’d told him.
“Please. Let me lay you down on your back.” He’d whispered huskily in her ear. It was almost enough to make her change her mind. “I want you.”
“I can’t.” She’d looked away. It’d been their first time together, and she felt ashamed. “You’re drunk.”
He hadn’t said a word as she’d grabbed her clothes and stepped into her room, her legs shaking, and every fiber of her being begging her to return to his embrace. And now, she was in bed recalling that moment, considering why it had bothered her so much.
She thought of her visions as she curled beneath the blankets. Her heart was aching, more than ever. Ian was the one who was supposed to take the pain away, but for some reason he had helped put it there. Nothing made sense. Again she wondered why she remembered their past life together, what bearing it had on the present.