by Patricia Kay
"All right. Call me if you need me."
"I will."
Owen hesitated, then put his arms around Justin, giving him a quick, hard hug. The rare show of emotion was nearly Justin's undoing. He managed to hold on, knowing that this was only the first of many tests of his strength that he would have to endure in the next days and weeks.
Then Owen left. And before Justin did anything else—talked to his secretary, called his mother, anything—he said a silent prayer asking God to give him the strength to get through it all.
* * *
Justin arrived at Amy's a few minutes before four, just in case she should get home earlier today. He opened the security gate and pulled around to the back, parking at the far side of the driveway.
For the next thirty minutes, he sat on the steps leading to Amy's apartment and waited. Peaceful sounds permeated the air: birdsong, a dog barking nearby, the hum of tires when a car drove by, someone playing scales on a flute, and far in the distance, the muted sound of a siren. Sounds people take for granted. Sounds Sam would never hear again.
Dappled sunlight made a constantly shifting pattern against the wood of the stairway and garage. A few feet away, a squirrel cocked its head before racing lightly up the trunk of one of the red oaks shading the garage. Lining the driveway, well-tended beds of late-blooming impatiens and begonias added touches of scarlet and rose to the surrounding green. Sights and colors Sam would never see again.
Justin put his head in his hands. Sam, why weren't you careful? Why? Hot tears scalded his eyes, but he forced them back. He wanted to throw something. Hit something. Do something. But all he could do was wait.
A few minutes after four-thirty, he heard the security gate opening. His heart began to pound, and his hands felt sweaty. He stood, walking over to his car on unsteady legs. Take it easy . . . He took several deep breaths and wiped his palms on his pants.
Amy's little white Miata came around the house. He saw the surprise on her face when she realized he was there. She opened the garage door and waved gaily as she drove past.
Slowly, feeling like an old man, Justin walked toward her. She looked so beautiful, so happy, and so completely unsuspecting as she climbed out of the car, her brightly-colored gauze skirt swirling around her legs, her arms filled with paraphernalia from school. Although her eyes held a question, he knew she had no idea that in only minutes he was going to break her heart and completely destroy her world.
"Hi! What a surprise! What are you doing here this time of day?" she said, smiling at him.
"Hello, Amy." His stomach clenched, and his throat felt as if it were filled with sawdust; it was all he could do to get the words out.
Her smile slowly faded.
"Amy . . . " He walked forward, put his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her eyes. "I-I've got some bad news."
He felt the tremor snaking through her. She shook her head. Her expression said it all. Whatever it was he was going to tell her, she not only didn't want to hear it, she was already denying it.
"Amy," he said again. And then he told her, as gently as he could. "I-I came right over. I didn't want you to hear about this on T.V. or the radio."
Her eyes. God, her eyes.
"We heard an hour ago. Sam . . . " He took a deep, shuddering breath. He would rather have cut off his arm than have to say the next words. "Sam had a bad accident. He fell down the side of a cliff, and . . . and when the search party finally reached the place where they thought they would find him, his . . . his body was gone." He squeezed her shoulders. "They . . . the authorities believe he's dead."
Her mouth twisted. Her face blanched. The school supplies slid to the ground. "Noooooo . . . noooooo . . . " Her head moved from side to side.
The terrible sound tore at his heart. "God, Amy, I'm so sorry. So sorry." He pulled her into his arms, fighting back his own agony. For a moment, she clung to him, moaning and saying "no" over and over again. And then, taking him off guard so that he almost couldn't keep her from hitting the ground, she fainted.
* * *
When Amy regained consciousness, she was lying on her bed. She frowned, confused. She didn't remember going to bed. And it was light out. Was she late for work? She turned to look at her bedside clock and saw Justin. His eyes were closed, and he was sitting in her rocking chair, which had been moved from the living area and was now positioned only inches away from the bed.
In a rush, everything came back to her, and with it, agonizing pain. Sam! Justin had said Sam was missing, probably dead. A hot knife of pain sliced through her, searing, excruciating, unbearable. A sound erupted from her mouth as tears gushed from her eyes.
Justin jumped, his eyes popping open. "Amy . . . " He moved to the edge of the bed and reached for her hand. "It's okay, I'm here, I'm here," he said in a singsong voice as if she were a child who'd had a nightmare.
It was a nightmare. It couldn't be true. Sam couldn't be dead. No, no, no, no. Sobs wracked her body as she moaned and writhed.
Justin pulled her into a sitting position and held her, saying over and over again, "It's okay, it's okay."
But it wasn't okay. And it would never be okay again. Justin knew it, but he didn't know what else to say. So he kept murmuring useless platitudes and smoothing her hair and rocking her in his arms. She cried for a long time, but gradually, her sobs lessened until they became an occasional deep shudder.
Finally she disengaged herself. When she looked up, her face was ravaged. "J-Justin? Are . . . are they sure?"
Justin grimaced. There was no way he was going to tell her what Owen had said about Sam's body. And yet, it wouldn't be a kindness to her to hold out too much hope. "They're pretty sure, Amy," he said gently. "There's very little chance Sam could have survived."
"But they haven't found him," she said.
"I know, but—"
"If they haven't found him, maybe that means he's wandering around, trying to find his way back to the camp."
She'd used almost the same, desperate words Justin had used earlier when he'd wanted Owen to reassure him. "Amy, the chances of him surviving such a fall are practically nonexistent."
"Then why didn't they find his body?" she insisted.
Justin stared at her. She wasn't going to let it alone. "Remember, it-it's the wilderness," he said slowly. "There are animals . . . "
Her face contorted, but she didn't cry again. Instead, she sank back, curled herself into a ball and closed her eyes. Justin sat there wondering what to do. After a few moments, he squeezed her arm. "I'll be close by if you need me."
Amy heard him, but she didn't answer. She couldn't answer. She was consumed with pain. It had invaded every corner, every crevice of her body, places she hadn't even known existed. Sam . . . Sam. How could he be gone? How could she go from such exhilarating happiness to such unendurable pain? She had been ecstatic as she drove home today. Now he would never know about the baby.
Their baby. She moaned. Their baby. The baby they had conceived with such passion, with such love.
He would never see it.
Never touch it.
Never hold it.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God . . .
How could she bear it? Sam . . . Sam . . . Sam . . . gorgeous Sam. His laughing face. His beautiful, golden-brown eyes. The way his eyelashes grew. That tiny little bump on his nose. The way he felt. Hard in some places. Soft in others. The way he smelled. Masculine. Sexy. Never again. Never again.
After a very long time, completely spent and exhausted, she fell into a restless sleep. Several times she moaned or whimpered, and each time, Justin would walk quietly over to the bed and look down at her. He would have given anything if he could have taken her pain onto himself. Anything to have spared her this misery.
He remembered how Sam had asked him to take care of her. "I'm trying, Sam," he whispered. "I'm trying."
It was only then, in the silence of the night, with Amy's cats the only witnesses, that Justin allowed himself to cry for
the loss of the man he'd loved, too.
Chapter Thirteen
Lark paid the cab driver and allowed the doorman at the Marriott Marquis to help her out. "Thanks." She pushed her way through the revolving doors, walked past the security desk and around to the circular bank of elevators.
Lark always stayed at the Marquis when she came to New York. She liked its location at 45th and Broadway, in the heart of the theater district, so that most nights she had no need of a cab. Tonight, though, she'd met Terry Gruber, an old friend from flight attendant school, and they'd gone to Terry's uncle's Italian restaurant in the Village.
Feeling pleasantly full and with a slight buzz from the wine they'd drunk, Lark hummed "Someone to Watch Over Me" while the glassed-in elevator whizzed her to the sixteenth floor. She hadn't been able to get the song out of her mind since seeing "Crazy for You" the night before. She felt relaxed and contented and glad she'd decided to take a few days vacation after her last, particularly grueling, shift.
Too bad Amy hadn't been able to come with her, she thought as she exited the elevator and headed toward her room. Amy loved New York—the galleries and museums and theaters. The two friends had visited the city often in the past and always enjoyed their stay. But even if Amy hadn't been teaching and unable to take time off, she still had too many things left to do to get ready for her wedding.
Lark had mixed emotions about Amy's getting married. She was glad for Amy, but she also knew things would never be the same. They were already changing. But that was inevitable, Lark supposed. Maybe I'll get lucky one of these days and meet the man of my dreams, too . . .
Reaching her room, she unlocked her door and walked inside. She tossed her purse on the bed and kicked off her heels, sighing with relief.
Her gaze settled on the bedside phone. The red message light was on. Idly wondering who had called, she picked up the remote and clicked on the T.V., selecting the in-house channel. There was only one message: Call Justin Malone at Amy's apartment, no matter how late you get in.
What in the world? Justin Malone? Lark knew who he was, of course, although she'd never met him. But Amy certainly talked about him enough. Lark couldn't help smiling. Amy really liked Justin and kept hinting that maybe Lark would, too—a hint Lark had pointedly ignored. She'd had enough disastrous fixed-up dates to last her a lifetime.
Why was Justin Malone calling her? A dreadful feeling gnawed at her stomach. Had something happened to Amy?
She picked up the phone.
It rang only once before a low, masculine voice answered.
"Justin? This is Lark DeWitt."
She listened—disbelief, shock, then concern for Amy, flooding her in rapid succession.
When he was finished, she said, "I'll get there as soon as I can. Do you want me to call you back when I know what time I'll get in?"
"Yes."
For the next hour, as Lark made the requisite phone calls, she tried not to think about anything except the arrangements necessary to get her to Houston. But once that task was accomplished, and she'd called Justin back, she could no longer keep from thinking.
She closed her eyes and fought the tears that threatened. Crying was so useless. It was weak and self-indulgent and changed nothing. She had learned that hard fact a long time ago. Crying certainly wouldn't do Amy any good, and right now, Amy's welfare was the only thing that counted.
Oh, God, poor Amy. And she'd been so happy the past few months. Her happiness was like a golden aura, shimmering around her, touching everyone in her sphere.
This would shatter her. Completely devastate her. And as if Sam's disappearance wasn't bad enough, it had happened when both her parents and Lark were away.
Please, please, let everything be okay. Let him be found. Don't let this happen . . .
Lark shivered, although the room wasn't cold. She was terribly afraid that all the prayers on earth wouldn't be enough to put Sam and Amy back together again.
* * *
Alan's hand shook as he replaced the receiver. He stared at the closed bathroom door. Beyond, he could hear the water running. Faith was taking a shower, getting ready for their day.
He bowed his head.
There would be no sightseeing today. Instead, in a moment, as soon as he had himself under control, he would pick up the phone and make arrangements for them to go home.
But first . . . he had to break the terrible news to Faith. He refused to allow his thoughts to go beyond the immediate task. He sat on the side of the bed. He felt sick.
After a bit, the water stopped.
Five minutes later, the bathroom door opened and Faith emerged, drying her hair with a towel. She took one look at his face and said, "What's wrong?"
"Come here, darling." Alan patted the bed next to him. When she was seated beside him, he put his arm around her. "It's not good news."
Her beautiful eyes—Amy's eyes—didn't waver. "Tell me."
Afterwards, she put her arms around him, and they held each other and cried for their daughter . . . and her lost dreams.
* * *
Claire Malone couldn't sleep. She kept thinking about Sam and Justin and Sam's fiancée, Amy. Claire hadn't yet met Amy, but she'd heard all about her from Justin, who thought she was wonderful. Claire's heart ached for Amy. For all of them. They'd all lost someone they loved.
Claire's eyes filled with tears as she remembered Jessie's reaction. The poor kid had fought so hard to control herself, but she hadn't been able to. She'd collapsed, weeping, into Claire's arms. Claire held her and wished, not for the first time, that she could take a child's pain away.
"I-I loved him," Jessie sobbed.
"I know." Claire smoothed Jessie's hair. Why was life so hard? Why did good people have to get hurt?
When Jessie's tears finally abated, she wiped her eyes and in a thick voice said, "Is Justin with Sam's fiancée?"
Claire nodded.
"Do you think there's anything we can do?"
"I don't know. Justin said he'd call tomorrow."
"Let me know. I-I want to help."
The other kids had taken it hard, too, especially Katie, who had adored Sam. Tears streamed down her face. "It's not fair!" she cried.
"No. It's not," Claire agreed. The unfairness of life was one of the hardest lessons anyone ever had to learn. She remembered how angry she'd been after she'd gotten over the first desolation of her husband's untimely death. She'd railed at the unfairness of it all, furious with the fates that had stolen Sean away from her. In the end, though, there was nothing to do but accept . . . and go on.
All these thoughts, and more, refused to stop churning in Claire's mind. Finally, at four o'clock, she gave up trying to sleep. Rising, she tiptoed into the bathroom—she didn't want to disturb Katie—and splashed water on her face, then reached for her robe. She would go downstairs, fix a pot of coffee, and mix up a meatloaf and put it and some potatoes into the oven to roast. When that was done, she'd bake some brownies. And later this morning, she would take the meal over to Amy's apartment.
Food wouldn't take away the pain, but perhaps it would help Amy to know that people cared.
At the very least, preparing something for Amy and Justin would make Claire feel better.
* * *
At four-thirty, Justin tried to sleep on the bed he'd fixed up on Amy's couch. He had just checked on Amy, and although her breathing was shallow and uneven, she was sleeping.
He had done everything he could think of to do. Located Lark and spoken to her. Gotten the number where Amy's parents were staying in Beijing and managed to get her father on the phone. Talked with his mother and several co-workers at the magazine. Called Owen Church and let him know how Amy was doing. He'd found the cat food and put fresh food and water in the cats' bowls. He'd even managed to get Amy to take a few bites of the Lipton Chicken Soup he'd fixed. And tomorrow morning he would call Amy's school and talk to her principal and explain what had happened. Surely they would be understanding. Justin couldn't ima
gine Amy being in fit enough shape to go back to work for a week or so, maybe longer.
He couldn't think of anything else.
He closed his eyes. He knew he needed to sleep, at least a few hours, if he were going to be in any shape to help Amy get through tomorrow. He wondered what time Lark would get in. She'd said she thought the first flight out would be at eight in the morning. She might get to the apartment as early as twelve-thirty.
He turned on his side, trying to get comfortable. Just then, he heard a cry. Leaping up, he disposed of the distance between the couch and Amy's bedroom area in a half-dozen long strides.
As he came around the screen that served as a divider, he saw that Amy was sitting up, clutching her stomach. Her face was contorted with pain. "Justin," she gasped.
"What? What is it?"
And then he saw the blood.
His heart stopped.
"Oh, Justin, c-call 911. I . . . it's the baby . . . "
The baby!
Stunned, he grabbed for the phone at her bedside, nearly knocking it over. He punched in the emergency number. Managed to answer the dispatcher's questions. In the meantime, Amy had stuffed her pillow between her legs, obviously trying to staunch the flow of blood. Her face had drained of all color and her eyes looked enormous and were filled with fear.
"An ambulance is on its way," the dispatcher said.
Justin hung up. He reached for Amy's hand and squeezed it. "They're coming. Can you hold on by yourself for a few minutes? I have to go down and open the security gates so they can get in."
Amy managed to nod her assent.
Justin raced outside, down the steps and around to the front of her parents' house. He punched in the code, then tore back to Amy's apartment.
The nine minutes it took for the ambulance to arrive were the longest nine minutes of Justin's life. He just held Amy's hand and tried not to look at her terrified eyes and kept telling her over and over again to hold on. His mind swirled with the knowledge that she was pregnant with Sam's child. If he'd only known! And yet, what could he have done differently? They'd had to tell her about Sam. They couldn't have kept the information from her.