Delaney rested her palm against the tree. As she’d done at least a thousand times since she’d first awakened in the hospital, she sent her thoughts back to that night last winter. She felt the bite of cold air as she stepped out of the restaurant, the warmth of Stanford’s grip on her elbow as he helped her into the car, caught the scent of his lime aftershave and the faint aroma of wine . . . and then . . . and then . . .
Nothing. She shut her eyes and shoved against the closed door in her mind. Why hadn’t they gone straight home? What had they done for the next four hours? And why on earth had she ended up behind the wheel? The details had to be buried in her brain—the fragments that had been surfacing in her nightmares proved that. She needed to push herself harder.
A breeze stirred the branches overhead, and the trace of Stanford’s lime aftershave was replaced by the acrid scent of oak leaves. She couldn’t hear screeching brakes, only a warbling robin. No thud of metal, just the sound of her heart.
Delaney curled her fingers into a fist until the backs of her knuckles prickled. Trying to remember the accident had become a daily routine. She should be accustomed to the frustration that followed, but she had hoped things would be different now that she was in Willowbank. If only she could find the key . . .
She strained, willing her mind to open.
Still nothing. Damn.
She sighed and opened her eyes. Maybe she was trying too hard. She’d never had to try hard to conjure up Max. He would simply appear.
A blackbird squawked from the woods beyond the fence. Delaney moved her gaze to the line of trees there, picturing Max’s shuffling walk as he emerged from the shadows that hid the path. His hair had always been uncombed and a little too long, but she’d loved the way it had gleamed in the sun. She’d loved his smile, too, and the way it had never failed to wrap around her like a hug . . .
Her vision blurred, melding the manicured green lawn she saw with the one she remembered. And in the center of both there was Max. He had already passed the gate and was walking toward her, his hand lifted in greeting . . .
The lawn was empty. Of course, it was empty. No little boy, imaginary or otherwise, was coming to visit. It must be some trick of the sunlight, or a streamer of mist that had drifted in from the pond, that made the spot in the center appear blurry. It gleamed like something solid, yet she could see right through it, as if she were looking into another dimension . . . or a make-believe world.
Delaney’s palm slid down the tree as she sank to the ground. She dug her fingernails into the arch of a root, anchoring herself in the here and now.
Yet the budding vision persisted. A feeling of warmth, of unconditional welcome, was enveloping her. Although her mind was alert, her body was relaxing as if she were once again on the wooden seat of the swing and had kicked free from the ground. Her limbs tingled. This was how it used to feel when she had summoned her imaginary friend.
This was pathetic. A grown woman reverting to the crutch of her childhood.
Yet what did she have to lose? Summoning Max wasn’t that different from the hypnosis Dr. Bernhardt, the clinic’s chief of psychiatry, had attempted. Maybe her subconscious was trying to tell her something. If she could free her imagination the way she had as a child, perhaps she could push past her mental block.
Delaney glanced around to ensure she was still alone, then drew her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs, and focused her thoughts on Max.
The picture of him wavered, then re-formed, stronger than before. Blotches of crimson and yellow sparkled against the sky. The mist around him thinned, as if stirred by the same wind that rustled the leaves over her head.
Instead of coming closer, the figure in the center turned away from her.
“Hey, Max,” Delaney whispered. “Don’t go yet.”
The shape that was Max appeared to stiffen. He paused where he was and tilted his head to one side, as if he were trying to hear her.
“That’s okay, Max.” Incredibly, she heard a chuckle bubble past her lips. How long had it been since she had laughed? “Talking to myself is bad enough. I don’t expect to get answers.”
The light around him brightened, and details began to appear. He was still turned away, so she couldn’t see his face, but his hair was the same dark brown it had always been, gleaming with streaks of auburn where the sun touched it.
He was taller than she remembered. Much taller. As a matter of fact, he was far too tall to be a boy. And he was no longer skinny. His shoulders had the breadth of a man’s and his biceps stretched out the sleeves of his white T-shirt. He stood with his feet braced solidly apart in a stance filled with self-confidence.
Delaney blinked. Her imaginary friend had grown up.
This time, her laugh came more easily. It was bad enough to regress to her childhood by imagining Max. It was downright pitiful to fantasize about him being a fully grown man.
But what had she expected? She wasn’t a child any longer, either.
“Deedee?”
The voice startled her. She hadn’t heard it; she had felt it. It was inside her head. It was deep and rough, stroking through her senses like summer heat.
Years ago, she had imagined Max’s voice in her head, too. They had giggled together as they’d played their pretend games, and sometimes he would join in when she sang her nonsense skipping rhymes. Back then he had sounded like a child. Now his voice was as unmistakably mature as his appearance.
This was some fantasy, Delaney thought wryly. The doctors would have a field day if they knew. So would Elizabeth. She’d haul her into a competency hearing so fast . . .
But no one had to know. That was the beauty of having a secret friend. “Long time no see, Max,” she murmured.
There was a pause; then the spots of color that surrounded him began to move, elongating and twining around themselves. Sunshine gleamed not only from his hair but from his broad shoulders. The image was strengthening. His arms became more defined. She could see a smear of crimson on his sleeve, and a streak of blue on his jeans.
Max pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. “Deedee?”
The distress in his voice took her aback. “I know it’s been a while,” she began.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I just wanted . . .” She caught herself. He was a figment of her imagination. Why was she trying to explain anything to him?
He dropped his hands and half turned toward her. There was a hint of a sharp cheekbone and strong jaw, but she still couldn’t see his face. “Go away, Deedee. I don’t have time to play.”
“Play? I don’t want to play, Max. I only want to remember.”
“I don’t.”
“But you can help me.”
“No.” He strode away. The colors whirled around him, melding with the shades of green at the edge of the lawn.
“Max, wait!”
“No.”
“Max—”
“Dammit, Deedee. Get the fuck out of my head!”
TWO
THE CONNECTION SNAPPED. MAX DUG HIS FINGERS INTO his scalp and stumbled backward, his mind recoiling. Wood splintered as he fell against the easel. He didn’t hear it. His foot came down on the wet canvas. He barely felt it. His senses were still clinging to the feeling of her.
She’d come back. She was here. The bond hadn’t broken.
How was that possible? More than two decades had passed since she’d left him. He’d stopped looking for her a long time ago. He’d stopped needing her. The bond should have been as dead as the boy he used to be.
He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, as if he could rub away the mist that had stolen into his mind, but it was as useless as trying to rub away sunshine. Or shut out the echo of laughter. Her laughter.
Deedee. He would have known her anywhere. She’d been his special playmate, the baby sister he’d never had. He’d felt the touch of her warmth even before he’d heard her voice calling his name. It was the name he used to go by,
not the one on his paintings or his prison record but the one he kept for himself. As it had all those years ago, her presence had tingled across his nerves like the brush of a butterfly just out of reach. He’d needed only to turn around and he could have seen her . . .
“No.” It had been a fluke, a trick of his mind, like the phantom twinge of an amputated limb. Max dropped his hands and forced his eyes open, grounding himself in reality. A cerulean sky spread beyond the windows. Stark, whitewashed plaster covered the walls. There were his shelves of paint, the jars of brushes, and the rolls of canvas waiting to be stretched. Nothing remained that didn’t belong. He kept this room stripped down to the bare necessities, because that was how he lived his life.
This was what he needed. Peace. Sanctuary. He sure as hell didn’t need that voice in his head, stirring up the past.
I only want to remember, she’d said.
Well, he didn’t. What was there to remember? What a fool he used to be? How naive and trusting he’d been? How much he’d loved? How much it had hurt?
He looked down. A smear of crimson slithered over the maple planks. More paint of the same shade clung to his heel. The canvas he’d been working on lay in a crumpled heap, a deflated, dead skin over the broken skeleton of his easel.
It was gone. Ruined. But it had already been ruined before his foot had gone through the canvas. The shimmering image, the vision he had painstakingly built in his head, had slipped from his grasp the moment she had barged into it.
Max aimed a kick at the pile of debris. The remains of the painting skidded across the room, bleeding more smears of crimson until it came to a stop against the far wall.
Instead of relieving his frustration, the kick only fed it. He followed the trail the painting had left, his bare feet leaving bloody red footprints. He snatched up what was left of his work, twisting it between his hands, snuffing out the last possible spark of life until the paint oozed between his fingers . . .
The hair rose on Max’s arms. He went motionless, fighting to contain the rage that waited to be released. He could feel it pulsing through him, tempting him, tightening his fists until the muscles in his arms started to tremble.
It would be easy to let go. It would feel good to let the ugliness out. It had felt so good before . . .
Max looked at the crimson that spattered his shirt and stained his hands.
And he remembered the second time he’d picked up Virgil’s belt.
Bile gathered in his throat. He dropped the canvas and backed away, coming up against the wall with a thud. He crossed his arms, tucking his hands high into his armpits as he pressed into the unyielding plaster.
“Damn you, Deedee,” he said through his teeth. “I’m not that boy anymore.”
He had thought the past was under control. And it had been, until she had slipped into his mind and right through the walls that preserved his sanity.
Max didn’t want to remember. Forgetting was how he survived.
THREE
THE SCREAM RENT THE MORNING. DELANEY JERKED HER head up, sending her sun hat tumbling to the ground behind her. The blackbird at the edge of the woods took to the sky in a sudden blur of wings, and Delaney struggled to breathe, unable to draw enough air into her lungs. What was that? What on earth had just happened?
There was another scream, this one followed by high-pitched squeals of laughter. Delaney leaned to her side to look past the trunk of the oak tree. A pair of children raced around the house, their giggles trailing like banners behind them. A plump woman in shorts followed, calling their names as they dodged behind the roses, admonishing them to behave. Her words sounded as if they were coming through a tunnel. Delaney watched her usher the girls back to the veranda, distantly aware they must be some of Helen’s guests, yet the scene seemed as unreal as the vision of Max.
Was this how insanity started?
She dropped her head into her hands. Think logically, she ordered herself. There had to be a reasonable explanation for the . . . the incident she had just experienced.
Yet her mind was still reverberating in shock from the loss of contact with Max.
No, she hadn’t lost him. He had severed the link himself. This hadn’t been any gentle fading, the way it used to be. His image hadn’t gradually dissolved into the mist when they were finished with their game. He had rejected her.
What did this say about her ego, her self-esteem? Her own fantasy had told her to get lost. Worse than that, he had told her to get the fuck out of his head.
Her Max never would have said anything like that. Sure, he used to be mischievous at times. That was all part of his charm. But he was never bad or mean or . . .
She pressed her fingers to her eyes. Stop. Max wasn’t real. He was imaginary. He was a creation of her own subconscious. He had no free will, no control, no existence. Therefore she was the one who had rejected herself.
Did this mean she had created a tall, well-muscled, dark-haired man as a fantasy and then had made him reject her? Why? Because there was some suppressed prude inside her who felt guilty over the fantasy? Because she didn’t feel she deserved it? Because she felt disloyal to Stanford?
No, that was all wrong. She was doing this because of Stanford. She had to remember. She owed him that much.
Then why had her subconscious severed the link with Max? Was there something buried there that she would be better off not remembering?
Delaney choked back a sob. If the incident didn’t indicate insanity, then trying to explain it could drive her there. She concentrated on her breathing, trying to bring it back to normal.
There had to be a simple explanation for the . . . the hallucination. It might have been a vivid, fever-dream kind of phenomenon. It could be hotter out here than she’d thought. It was only mid-June, but the humidity could be a factor, especially to someone who hadn’t spent much time outdoors lately. Or it could be even simpler than that. Her blood sugar might be too low, and she’d slipped into a semi-doze when she’d started to relax. Yes, that seemed plausible. She should have taken her grandmother’s advice and eaten a muffin.
A hand settled on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.
Still strung tight, Delaney cried out and jerked away from the touch.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
A man in navy blue coveralls stood in front of her. His eyebrows were bushy and steel-colored, as was the hair that poked out from beneath his John Deere baseball cap. His face bore the kind of deep creases due more to weather than to age. He peered at her with wary concern, his brown eyes looking familiar . . .
Once again, the present merged with a vision from the past, only this man was real. “Edgar?” Delaney asked.
He nodded, a curt, energy-conserving motion of his chin.
Edgar Pattimore had been a frequent sight around the place in the old days. Each fall when the rain gutters had needed cleaning or the porch had needed painting, Edgar’s blue pickup truck with the toolbox and ladders would clatter up the driveway. He’d seemed ancient to her when she’d been a child, probably because he’d been friends with her grandfather, yet he didn’t appear to be much past Helen’s age.
Or Stanford’s.
The realization shocked her. She didn’t know why it should. Age had been irrelevant when it came to her feelings for her husband.
Delaney got to her feet and combed her hair from her face with her fingers. It took a second to remember there wasn’t enough hair to comb. It took several more to register the fact that her hands were shaking. She retrieved her sun hat from the ground and set it back on her head. “You might not remember me, Edgar. I’m—”
“Deedee,” he said. “Your grandmother said you were coming.”
He was the second person in the space of an hour to call her by the childhood name. The third, if she counted Max.
But Max wasn’t real. So he didn’t count. Or maybe he did, because he was a product of her subconscious mind . . .
Enough already, she told herself. C
ontacting Max had been an experiment. It hadn’t worked. Time to move on. “Yes, I arrived here yesterday.” The wind picked up, moving the boughs overhead. A shaft of sunlight struck her cheek, and she adjusted the brim of her hat to protect it. “The place looks wonderful,” she said, gesturing around the yard. “I should have realized that you’d still be helping out.”
“My nephew takes care of the heavy work now, but I do what I can.” He slapped the work gloves he was holding against his leg, knocking off a shower of dirt. An electric hedge trimmer dangled from his other hand. “You didn’t see anyone else out here, did you?”
She started. “What do you mean?” Her voice sounded shriller than she’d intended. She took a calming breath. “Uh, no, other than those girls and their mother. Why?”
Edgar used his chin to point toward the small wooden structure that was nestled beside the hedge on the far side of the roses. “Some of the stuff inside the garden shed was moved around. Looks like someone was inside before I got here.”
“Was anything taken?”
“Nope. Besides the tools and a few bags of fertilizer, the only thing worth stealing’s the lawn tractor, but it’s still there.”
“It could have been kids.”
“I suppose. I don’t like to think someone’s been snooping around. That shed should be locked.”
“Has Willowbank changed that much?”
“Used to be we knew everybody. Not now. Lots of new people building around the lake. Kids cut through here on their way into town. They figure everything is public property.” He slapped his gloves against his leg again, then shifted his gaze from the shed to her. “You need some help?”
“Help?”
“You didn’t look so good a minute ago. You need help getting back to the house?”
“Thanks, but I’m all right. I was just . . . reminiscing. This garden used to be one of my favorite places.”
Another chin nod. “Sorry about your husband, Deedee. Or I guess I should call you Mrs. Graye now.”
Delaney's Shadow Page 3