She smiled but for all his joking words, it was easy to imagine him in his nineteenth-century finery. He would have been the most handsome man at the party, and the most sought after.
"Catherine must have been a wonderful sight, too," she said softly, stroking her palms over his shoulders.
Matthew grimaced. "Do you mean Cat? To tell you the truth, sweetheart, I cannot even remember her face."
"You don't have to say that."
"I say it because it is true." He put his hand under her chin and lifted it gently. "She was a cat with sharp claws and a cold heart. You, sweetheart, are a kitten, sweet and soft and always warm in my arms." He bent his head and brushed his mouth over hers. "I love you, Kathryn. You will always be with me."
"Always," she sighed.
Matthew's arms closed around her. He drew her close and, as he did, he looked past her, into the kitchen.
The clock on the wall read eight-fifteen.
God, he thought, God, let me be strong enough to see this to the end.
"Was there dancing, at the parties here?" Kathryn asked.
"Dancing?" he repeated, and cleared his throat. "Well, reels and such. Four steps forward, four back, turn to your partner, bow and curtsy." He smiled. "Nothing like what we saw in that television drama the other evening. What did you call that style of dance?"
"It was slow dancing."
"It looked immoral." He grinned. "And wonderful. Do you think you could teach me how it's done?"
Kathryn laughed and looped her arms around his neck. "Trust me, Captain You'll be an expert in no time."
They began to move slowly to the soft music, their bodies so close together that they might have been one.
"You see? You're a natural."
"With you in my arms, I am."
His arms tightened around her. The pain of knowing what came next, that he was going to break Kathryn's heart, was almost unbearable and yet, it was the only way he knew to send her back to the world in which she belonged.
As for himself... what would become of him after tonight? Would he be able to take these memories into whatever dark place lay ahead? He closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of Kathryn in his arms, on the silky brush of her hair against his cheek.
Remember this, he told himself fiercely, remember the taste of her skin as you press your mouth to her throat, the way she sighs with love and desire, the swift race of her heart as you cup her breast...
"Matthew," she whispered.
Her face lifted blindly to his. He kissed her, more and more deeply, until she was trembling. Then he swung her into his arms and carried her through the dark house and up the stairs to the bedroom.
Moonlight kissed her skin with silver as he undressed her.
He told himself to savor each moment, to feast his eyes on her body and fill his heart with all this woman meant to him.
He caressed her breasts and kissed them; he tasted the nectar hidden between her thighs. He whispered to her of how he loved her, and of how beautiful she was. He knew that the sand was running faster and faster through the hourglass. His anguish grew, as did his passion. It surged through his blood with each beat of his heart, so that when the moment came at last, he entered her not slowly, as he had intended, but with driving, almost feverish, haste.
She cried out, the sound so wild and primitive that it stopped him.
"Kathryn, my love, I've hurt you," he said hoarsely.
She shook her head, wrapped her legs around his waist, and rose to meet his thrust.
"No," she whispered, "no, don't stop, don't stop, don't ever stop..."
When it was over, he collapsed on top of her, both their bodies spent and gleaming with sweat.
"I love you," Kathryn said softly.
He kissed her, then rolled onto his side and held her close. "Promise me something."
He felt her smile against his throat. "Anything."
"Promise me you'll always be happy."
She laughed softly. "I'll do my part, if you'll do yours."
"I'm serious, Kathryn." He rose up on his elbow and looked down at her. "Even if there comes a time happiness seems an impossible goal, I want you to strive to find it, to remind yourself that it is what I wish for you, with all my heart."
"Matthew," she said with an uneasy laugh, "you're frightening me."
"Nay, love, I've no wish to do that. It's only that I love you." He kissed her gently. "Will you remember that?"
What was he trying to tell her? She could feel a cold knot forming in her belly and she tried to ease the tension with a joke.
"You'll remind me, in case I forget, Matthew. We both know how modest and humble you are."
But he didn't smile. Instead, he kissed her again. "You are the miracle of my life, Kathryn Russell," he whispered. "You are everything I dreamed of and more than I ever hoped."
"Matthew, what is all this? Is something..."
The phone rang.
It was twenty minutes past ten.
Kathryn sat up, frowning. "Who could be calling at this hour?"
Matthew rolled from the bed, got her robe and slipped it around her shoulders.
"There's only one way to find out, sweetheart. You'll have to go downstairs and answer it."
He paused just long enough to pull on his jeans. When he reached the library, Kathryn was standing with the telephone to her ear and an incredulous expression on her face.
"I wish you hadn't done this without consulting me, Beverly," she was saying. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. "It's my mother," she whispered. "You won't believe this, Matthew. She's on the island!"
Matthew's brows lifted. "Really."
"Yes. Dammit to hell, I wish... Yes, Beverly," she said into the telephone, "I'm listening. Your plane landed twenty minutes ago and you're tired of standing out in the middle of nowhere and why aren't I there to meet you. I told you why. Because I had no idea you were coming, and if I had known, I'd have told you to stay home!"
Matthew put his arm lightly around Kathryn's shoulders.
"You can argue with her after you've gone and fetched her," he said softly.
Kathryn rolled her eyes and slapped her hand over the phone again.
"I don't want to go and fetch her," she hissed.
He smiled and kissed her forehead. "Is there a choice?"
Kathryn sighed. She reached up, touched her fingers to his lips.
"All right, Beverly. I'll be there as soon as I can. Yes, just wait. I know it's dark, dammit! This is Elizabeth Island, not the Riviera!"
She slammed down the phone, turned into Matthew's arms, and shook her head.
"She says she sent a telegram."
"Perhaps she did."
"Not that it matters. What on earth's gotten into her? We see each other twice a year at best, talk on the phone a few times more than that, and now, all of a sudden, here she is, where I least want her."
Matthew smiled. "Surely, you can endure her company for just a little while."
"A little while? Who knows how long she plans on staying?" Kathryn said darkly. "And what are we supposed to do while she's here? Pretend you don't exist?"
He wanted to remind her that he didn't, not in any way her mother or anyone else would understand, but the time for such reminders was long past. Instead, he kissed her and did what he could to pretend this was just another evening and Beverly's visit just another interruption.
"For tonight, anyway," he said, "that's probably precisely what we should do. You go and pick her up and when you get back, I'll stay out of sight. It will be easier for you that way, love. You can talk with her without being interrupted by my presence."
He was right. She went upstairs and slipped into a pair of shorts and a cotton shirt. It was impossible to imagine what misguided maternalism had brought her mother to the island but she had the feeling she'd need to muster all her concentration to deal with it.
Moments later, she stood with Matthew at the front door.
"Okay, I g
uess I've got no choice but to go get her."
"Neither of us has a choice tonight," he said softly. "Each of us must do what we must."
She knew what he meant, that he would have to keep out of sight, at least for tonight, and that she would have to deal with her mother. Still, that same sense of unease she'd felt earlier swept over her.
"Matthew? If something were wrong, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"
He smiled, took her hands in his, and kissed them.
"I love you," he said. He drew her close to him. "Now, go on. Go get your mother."
"I'll miss you tonight." '
"Aye. As I will miss you."
She smiled, reached up, and brushed her mouth to his.
" 'Til tomorrow, my love," she whispered.
" 'Til tomorrow," he said softly, and then, very gently, he sent her out into the night.
* * *
He watched from the doorway until the lights of her vehicle had faded. He listened as the sound of its engine grew faint. When he could hear it no longer, he shut the door. He had planned carefully; it was just a matter of pausing to pick up a wrench and light a candle.
Then he went to the cellar.
It smelled of damp and of mice. The odor was not pleasant but he did not mind for it was of life. Moonlight fell across the earth floor and across the propane heater, standing silent in the comer.
It was important to move quickly now, so that it would all be done well before Kathryn's return. He had paid careful attention to Hiram's warnings about the faulty heater; he knew which was the supply valve, which the pipe that connected to the tank outside.
He put the candle high on a nearby shelf. By its flickering yellow light, he carefully loosened the connection between the heater and the supply tank. Then he opened the valve.
There was a hissing sound and the air around him began to fill with the stench of rotten eggs. The gas was heavier than air; it would fill the room eventually but, at first, it would stay close to the floor.
"I love you, Kathryn," he whispered.
The stink grew more powerful.
"I love you, and I will be in your heart forever, as you will be in mine."
The air was thick with the smell of the gas now. Soon, it would reach the candle flame.
Matthew felt his eyes blur with sudden dampness.
"Good-bye, Kathryn," he said softly, "good-bye, my love."
* * *
Kathryn was halfway to the airport when she heard Matthew's voice.
"Good-bye, Kathryn. Good-bye, my love."
Her skin turned icy with fear. "No," she whispered, and then she screamed. "Matthew, no!"
She jammed on the brakes and the car skidded wildly across the road but even before its engine sputtered and died, the sky behind her exploded into a million shooting stars.
Chapter 20
After her divorce, years before, Beverly Russell had been left penniless and with a teenaged daughter to rear.
"So, what else is new?" she'd said with a wry smile, to anyone who cluck-clucked over what her friends delicately called her "situation."
Trevor Russell had never made enough money to matter nor held on to what little he'd had. And, towards the end of the marriage, he'd spent more time tramping the mountains, veldt, tundra and beaches of the world's more exotic places than he had staying at home.
Beverly had tried her hand at selling cosmetics, used cars and encyclopedias—"Not all at the same time," she'd say with a smile when she talked about that period in her life—but nothing had clicked. Then, at a friend's urging, she'd decided to try turning what had always been a hobby into an occupation.
Beverly called it creating jewelry out of found objects.
Kathryn called it making necklaces, bracelets and earrings out of junk.
To the surprise of them both, more people saw it Beverly's way than Kathryn's, including the owners of a world-renowned shop with branches in Manhattan, Paris, London, Madrid and Palm Beach. Just about the time Kathryn had finished college, Beverly was transformed from flea-market craftperson to sought-after designer.
Ever since then, as she often said with a cat-ate-the-canary smile, life had been very, very pleasant.
She lived on Central Park in a vast, high-ceilinged apartment with a breathtaking view. Kathryn had never much liked the place. Despite its size, the apartment seemed cramped, thanks to Beverly's propensity for ballooning velvet drapes, silk shawls, eclectic furnishings, and table-top collections of whatever struck her fancy, from French snuffboxes to Chinese jade. The building itself was one of those New York landmarks, all turrets and stone gargoyles. Kathryn's tastes ran more to the spare elegance of the newer glass skyscrapers that loomed in the Fifties.
At least, it had.
Strange, how her tastes had changed.
Sitting in the living room of Beverly's apartment on a late spring afternoon, she found herself admiring what she'd once thought of as clutter. Not very long ago, she'd have found the antique silk shawl flung across the baby grand in the corner pretentious, the Duncan Phyfe table crowded with tiny porcelain dogs unattractive, the Empire sofa facing the pair of Mies van der Rohe chairs just plain out of place.
She didn't, not anymore. Instead, she took pleasure in the richly furnished rooms, even in the turrets and the gargoyles of the building itself. She saw now that these things had their own beauty and were soothing not just to the eye but to the soul.
Kathryn sighed, put down the copy of Vanity Fair she'd been pretending to read, and walked out onto the little balcony that overlooked the park. It was probably all those weeks of living in the ruined splendor that was Charon's Crossing that had changed her attitude towards what she'd once thought of as out-of-date clutter.
Not that she thought about Charon's Crossing very much anymore.
She had, at first. For weeks after the explosion and fire that had reduced the mansion to rubble, she really hadn't been able to think about much of anything else. It was as if the explosion, and the subsequent fire, had burned themselves into her brain.
She saw the flames shooting into the black sky over and over again, heard herself screaming Matthew's name.
The nights had been the worst. Asleep, she'd had no control over the images; they'd swooped down on her like visions out of Hell. It was always the same. She saw the house, and her car driving away from it. She saw Matthew, going to the cellar.
Don't she'd say in the dream, oh God, please, please, don't!
Hush, sweetheart, he'd whisper, and then Charon's Crossing would explode in terrible, agonizing slow motion and she'd shoot upright in bed, screaming and screaming, until Beverly came rushing in from her bedroom across the hall, switched on the lights and took her in her arms.
"It's all right, darling," her mother would croon, rocking her as if she were a child instead of a grown woman. "Don't think about it anymore."
She hadn't, after a while. Weeks of therapy had done the job. She knew now that what she'd remembered about Charon's Crossing wasn't true. The house had been real, and the fire.
But not Matthew. He had never existed. He had been a creation of her own imagination.
"Stress," Dr. Whalen had told her, "stress, Kathryn. It can do amazing things to the human psyche."
"You don't understand," Kathryn had insisted, at the beginning. "Matthew was real!"
"His journal was real," the psychiatrist had said gently. "I've no doubt you found it, read it, and absorbed it. Your mind did the rest."
Gradually, she had come to realize that the doctor, and Beverly, were right. There were no such things as ghosts. How could she have ever thought there were? She'd regained her appetite. She'd begun to sleep through the night even though she knew she sometimes still dreamed without ever remembering the dreams. Why else would she so often awaken with tears in her eyes and a lump in her throat?
Kathryn looked down at her hands, wrapped around the balcony railing. The knuckles were white and sharp. She forced herself to take a deep breath and de
liberately loosened her grip on the railing.
She was having a bad time today. She kept thinking about Charon's Crossing. About Matthew. No, no, that wasn't right. How could you think about a man you'd never known? Dr. Whalen would say she was obsessing on a dream image she'd created.
Of course she was. But it was an image so exciting and wonderful that no real man would ever be able to take its place...
Kathryn shut her eyes tight. "Stop it," she whispered.
What was the matter with her today?
Just last week, Dr. Whalen had given her a clean bill of health. Sessions on the couch, three times a week, coupled with medication, had done the job.
"It's graduation day," the doctor had said, and smiled. "We're going to reduce our sessions together to once a week and lower your dosage of medication. You're going to be fine," she'd said, patting Kathryn's hand, "absolutely as good as new."
And I am, Kathryn thought firmly, as good as new and maybe better.
For the first time in years, she and Beverly had a positive relationship. Beverly had been her rock since the night of the explosion, the only one who'd been able to get through to her as the pillar of fire touched the sky.
Kathryn had no recollection of what had happened. She knew only that she'd raced back towards the flames through the night, that sirens had wailed, that people had surrounded her and held her down as she clawed and fought to go to Matthew.
"He's burning," she'd screamed, "Matthew, Matthew, my love..."
She remembered a sea of faces—Amos and Hiram and endless others, and then one face, Dr. Simpson's, and the sharp, cold prick of a needle.
"No," she'd said, "no, please..."
Beverly's arms had closed around her.
"It's all right, Kathryn," she'd said, and Kathryn had tried to tell her that it wasn't, that Matthew was trapped somewhere inside that hellish inferno...
And then she'd tumbled into a bottomless well.
The days had passed in a blur of light and dark. She knew now that she'd been heavily sedated. Still, she remembered asking Beverly the same question each time she'd surfaced.
"Is he dead?" she'd whisper, and her mother would kiss her forehead and tell her that everything was going to be fine.
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