Most of the time, anyway. Except for their final night. He’d cut short a meeting so that he wouldn’t be late for their dinner. At the restaurant, he’d turned off his phone completely instead of setting it to vibrate silently, which had been another exception. When her phone had rung on the way home, he’d insisted that she not answer it.
Delaney froze, not daring to move or even to breathe. The memory fragment hovered in front of her, tantalizingly close and so clear she could feel the hum of the engine through the soles of her boots as she leaned over to reach for her purse. Stanford took one hand from the wheel and caught her wrist, saying he wanted her all to himself . . .
The memory wavered, then slipped from her mind like mist through her fingers.
She exhaled carefully, her heart thudding. It hadn’t been much, but it was something. Another moment of life with Stanford. A glimpse of truth to build on. This proved she was right; her memories weren’t gone. All she had to do was unlock them. She leaned closer to the window and focused on the darkness, opening her mind to the past.
Moonlight spilled across the yard like snow. There had been a light dusting of it the night of the accident and snowbanks along the sides of the road from an earlier storm. She tried to picture the ride home. Had there been snow in the headlights? The road in her nightmare had been wet. It had turned to water and seaweed that had curled around her ankles to hold her down . . .
Delaney shuddered, then tried to take control of her memories the way she’d controlled her nightmare. The water was only dew. The fire was sunshine. There was nothing to be afraid of because Max would keep her safe.
A shadow moved in the center of the yard. It was in the same place where Max had appeared yesterday morning. The shape was shot full of moonlight, as if it weren’t entirely there. As she watched, it darkened into the silhouette of a man. A tall man with broad shoulders and dark hair. A sensation of warmth and welcome settled over her. She knew who it was. “Max,” she whispered.
It had happened again. She’d been seeking a memory and had found Max instead. Why? Was she crazy? Was she dreaming?
Did it matter?
She’d already decided it didn’t. As long as he helped her cope, she would use anything, even a figment of her imagination. “Hey, Max,” she murmured. “Up here.”
The hazy shape disappeared.
She peered at the spot where he’d been until her eyes watered and she had to blink, but the lawn remained empty. A cool breeze stole through the screen. She crossed her arms, rubbing her palms over her sleeves.
“You don’t sleep much, do you?”
She jerked. That was Max’s voice. He’d sounded annoyed, just as he had yesterday, as if she’d disturbed him and he didn’t want to talk to her.
But the voice hadn’t come exclusively from her head. It seemed to have come from the room behind her.
SIX
DELANEY TURNED.
A man was standing beside her bed. He was part shadow and part moonlight, just as he’d been in the yard. She could see one of the bedposts and the pattern of the wallpaper behind him. Through him.
Yet the more she stared, the more the image solidified. Details emerged. There were loose folds in the pale shirt that draped his shoulders. It fell untucked over his hips. Faded, washed-soft denim molded to his long legs. His feet were braced apart. They were bare. His shirt wasn’t only untucked, it was half-buttoned, as if he hadn’t finished dressing. Or more likely, as if he’d been taking his clothes off.
She thought of the naked skin she’d glimpsed the night before. Awareness tickled down her spine like the brush of an electric current. She raised her gaze to his face.
A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, partly obscuring his left eye. His lips were pressed in a firm line, deepening the shadows beneath his cheekbones. The features that had once been boyish had become too sharp to be handsome, as if a sculptor had chiseled them down to the quintessential masculine basics. To someone who didn’t know him, he might appear harsh. To anyone else, he wouldn’t even be here.
Yet he looked real to Delaney, as real as the boy who had been her playmate and best friend.
She deliberately dug her fingers into her arms. She felt the prick of her nails through the silk of her robe. She felt the floorboards beneath her feet and heard the insects and frogs outside the window. She couldn’t explain the vision away this time. She was actually seeing . . . “Max,” she breathed.
“Why do you sound surprised every time? You’re the one who did this, not me.”
“Did what?”
“Brought me here.”
“I . . . didn’t plan to. It just happened.”
“And you figure we can just pick up where we left off, is that it?”
She bit her lip. She was still giving her imaginary friend an attitude. “Be nice, Max. You used to be happy to see me.”
“I used to be a lot of things that I’m not anymore.” He turned his head, as if he were looking around him. “Is this your old room?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s changed. I didn’t recognize it last night.”
“Last . . .”
“When you brought me into your nightmare.” He finished his survey and focused on her. “Do you get a lot of those, Deedee?”
“Nearly every night. Uh, thanks for helping me handle it.”
He dismissed her thanks with a shrug. “You didn’t give me much choice. I’d been asleep and didn’t see you coming. Why did you call me this time? Did it come back again?”
“No. I didn’t mean to call you. I was only trying to remember.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that. Why?”
“It’s important.”
“Take it from me, there are a lot of things that are better off left buried.”
“Like you, Max?”
“Exactly like me.”
She shook her head. “Why are you acting this way? You used to be my best friend.”
“That was more than twenty years ago, Deedee. You’ve been gone for a long time.”
“Is that why you’re acting so hostile? Because I left you? Max, I couldn’t help it. I . . . grew up.”
“I noticed.”
His voice had roughened. The deep tones licked across her nerves, as cool as the breeze that wafted over the tops of her breasts. She drew the sides of her robe together and tightened the belt.
He arched one eyebrow.
She dropped her hands. It was ridiculous to feel modesty in front of a figment of her imagination. She’d thought him up. She’d given him the attitude. It must mean she wanted him to be that way.
What way? Brooding? Tough? Self-confident and sexy?
Sexy? That was ridiculous, too. Of all the issues she needed to deal with, sex wasn’t even on the radar. “You might as well stop being difficult and help me. It’s the reason you’re here.”
He walked toward her soundlessly. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m here to satisfy my curiosity, that’s all. You disappeared last night before you answered my question.” He cupped her right shoulder. As gently as a whisper, his thumb skimmed over the silk that hid one of the burns.
The sensation that followed his touch stunned her. The damaged skin tingled with life, as if the pleasure came from the inside. Even through her robe, the contact felt wonderful. No one had touched her injuries except for doctors. No one, besides Max, had even seen them. “Question?”
“Tell me how you got these.”
It was odd that she needed to explain them to herself.
Odd? Could it be any odder than seeing him in the first place? Imagining him here? Touching her? “It was an accident,” she replied rather than analyzing the apparition any further. “At least that’s what the police said.”
“A car accident?”
“That’s right. Apparently, I drove a Jaguar XK into a utility pole.”
“Then the nightmare was real.”
“The crashing part was.”
He slid the
backs of his knuckles down the front of her robe, following the scar to her breast. “And the fire.”
“Yes. All of it was real, except the water.”
“That was real. The seaweed, the mud. You almost died then, too.”
She swallowed. Imagining his touch was making it more difficult for her to think. She stepped back to break the contact and bumped into the window frame. “No, my subconscious probably put that in because I don’t like water. That’s what Dr. Bernhardt believes.”
“Who’s that, your shrink?”
“Yes.” And he’d probably lock her up if he saw her now.
“So it’s your shrink’s idea for you to remember your childhood.”
“No, you’ve got it wrong. I don’t need help remembering that. It’s the more recent past. I have a . . . mental block of the accident.”
“From what I saw last night, that’s something else that’s better left buried.”
“I’m not trying to remember the accident itself. It’s the four hours before it that matter.”
“Why?”
“I want to know the truth. I need to know what happened during my final evening with my husband.”
“Your husband,” he repeated. He held her gaze as he touched her jaw. “That’s where the pain came from, isn’t it?”
Somehow she knew he wasn’t speaking only of the physical pain. She nodded, brushing her cheek across his fingertips. It felt so good. Right. As if he fit there, like a missing part of herself.
“You need to let this go, Deedee.”
The way he said the childhood name was like another caress. “What?”
“The accident. Your husband.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It’s the only way to get past the pain.”
“No, remembering is how to get past it.”
He withdrew his hand and placed it on the wall beside her head. “I’m giving you good advice, but you’re as stubborn as you always were.”
“It’s just that this is important. I feel as if there’s something I have to know but I don’t. It’s like . . . a tickle in the middle of my brain. And I really don’t understand why you keep resisting the idea of cooperating with me.”
“Simple. I’ve changed. I’m not the boy I used to be.”
“Max . . .”
“That means I’m not into rescuing little girls or needy women anymore.”
It took her a moment to process what he’d said. Her temper stirred. “I am not a child, nor am I needy. I’m not asking you to rescue me, only to help me help myself. This bad-boy attitude of yours is getting irritating.”
“If you don’t like it, then stop barging into my head.”
She frowned, tipping up her chin so she could look into his face. He’d been taller than her when she’d been a child, but she’d never thought much about the difference in their heights. She was aware of it now, though. She was also aware of the breeze, and the moonlight, and the intimacy of being alone in her bedroom with a large, partially dressed man.
Which was crazy, since he wasn’t even here. “Maybe you’ve got a point. Maybe that’s why you’re being so unpleasant. It’s forcing me to face the unpleasantness. That’s something I tend to avoid. By creating you again, I’m already on the way to breaking through my block.”
“Creating me?”
“It’s a form of self-hypnosis,” she said, deciding she needed to remind herself of that before her fantasy got out of hand. “I imagine I see you just as I did when I was young because you’re a way for me to unlock my subconscious.”
His eyebrows drew together, mirroring her frown. “I’ll be damned. You don’t believe I’m real.”
This was getting complicated again. She tried to imagine Max the way she wanted him to be, smiling at her, patient with her, never saying a bad word, walking across the lawn near her swing . . .
His image wavered briefly. He slapped his other hand against the window frame, caging her between his arms. “No you don’t. You’re not breaking off this time until I’m ready to go. We’re not done.”
Her pulse stuttered. The illusion was getting so vivid, she imagined she could feel the heat from his body. A faint whiff of paint came from his sleeve, mixing with the musky scent of male skin. She held her hands up to his chest, meaning to push him away, even though part of her knew there was nothing to push in the first place . . .
Her palms touched soft cotton. The tip of her index finger brushed over a button. Beneath the shirt lay the firm contours of a man’s chest. It rose and fell with his breathing. Like his touch on her skin, the impressions didn’t come from outside, they came from inside, as if she knew them more than sensed them.
“I’m not who you think I am, Deedee.”
“Yes, you are,” she said. “You’re Max. I know you as well as I know myself.”
“That’s not saying much. Your memory is full of holes.”
“Stop being like that!”
“You know the solution.”
“I can’t let you go. I’ll do whatever I have to, to remember.”
“You don’t need me for that.”
“Oh, yes I do. I know you can help me, Max.”
“Why? I’m not a shrink.”
“Yes, but you’re my friend.”
He took his hand from the window frame and touched her hair. “I take it back. You didn’t grow up. Only a kid would be naive enough to trust a man she hasn’t seen in twenty-four years.”
Her imaginary friend had become cynical. What did that say about her? “Go ahead and bluster. I don’t care, because I have faith that somewhere in there”—she poked at his chest—“you’re still the sweet, kind, and gentle little boy I used to love.”
He didn’t respond.
Her finger rested on his shirt, then slowly sank into the place where he stood. She could see the bed behind him. She reached for his arms but grasped only air. “Max, wait!”
The old Max would have stayed.
This one turned without another word and faded into the wall.
SEVEN
MAX HELD THE PALETTE KNIFE ON EDGE, SCRAPING THE blade over the slab of glass where he mixed his colors. He slashed it across the canvas in one fluid motion, and another flame swirled to life. With a twist of his wrist, he dragged the knife tip through the wet paint to define the outer contour of the fire. Instead, he revealed the layer beneath. A core of pale white diluted what should have been red. He used the heel of the knife to repair the stroke, but that made it worse. Blue bled into the muted red, softening the entire area to a gentle smear of lilac.
He cleaned it off, wiped the knife on a rag, and tried again.
The same thing happened. The canvas seemed determined to reject the vision in his head.
Max let the vision fade, then stepped back from the easel and tossed the knife on the table. The daylight was waning. That explained why the colors weren’t cooperating. How long had he been at this? He rolled his shoulders, only then becoming aware of the discomforts in his body. His right arm ached. His back was stiff. The low rumble in his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten since noon. He’d agreed to put in an appearance at the opening of his show in New York tomorrow, so it was past time to call it a day.
He capped the paint tubes and cleaned his tools, then returned to regard the painting. He’d left his brushes in the jar for this one. Only his palette knives could have applied the pigment with enough force to suit him. The result was as violent as the concept he’d begun with. Flames licked in oily circles. The darkness surrounding them was crusted with monochrome ridges of blackened aquamarine, like terrors glimpsed on the limits of vision and only half-remembered. The image extended to the very edges where the canvas was stapled over the wooden frame, as if it fought its containment in two dimensions.
The accidental smear of pale white in the center didn’t belong. It was a mistake, a contradiction. A core of softness, light inside darkness, hope inside horror, like the woman who had created this image in the fi
rst place.
He’d been trying to recapture Deedee’s nightmare in this painting. The image had been haunting him almost as much as she had. Both had been impossible to get out of his mind.
She was a puzzle, a mass of contradictions with as many layers as the paint he’d applied to the canvas in front of him. Darkness inside light inside more darkness. Innocent. Sensual. Both woman and child. She didn’t seem to realize the power of her mind. She wielded it as carelessly as a kid with a crayon.
Max shifted his gaze from the painting to the easel. He’d screwed two slats of wood on either side of the back leg to patch it together and had completely replaced one of the front ones to fix the damage he’d caused when he’d fallen into it. A faint outline of red still stained the floor. He hadn’t been able to get all of the paint out of the wood planks any more than he could keep Delaney out of his thoughts.
That was three times she’d found him now. The panic that had sent him crashing into his painting the first time hadn’t happened again, though. His fear had been unfounded. The ugly emotions he’d learned to control had remained locked away in spite of her repeated forays into his head.
But she wouldn’t think about what her return was doing to his peace of mind. She didn’t care how often she barged into his thoughts or how many demands she made. Why should she? She didn’t believe he was real.
He should have figured it out earlier. She would have been too young to remember their first encounter, and she’d obviously blocked her memory of the way she’d almost drowned. She wouldn’t have questioned their exceptional relationship, either. Kids accepted what happened to them, both the good and the bad, with no explanation, as if it was meant to be. Children had no choice. They were powerless to change anything. The best they could do was to pretend it wasn’t there.
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