Delaney's Shadow

by Ingrid Weaver

  She pushed away from the dresser and moved past him. Through him. He had no more substance than what she gave him, and her thoughts were someplace else. “Deedee?”

  She stood at the foot of the bed and steepled her fingertips on the suitcase. “I remember.”

  The words were as faint as her image. He strove to hang on to both. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I was leaving him. That’s where I was going the night . . .” She swallowed. “The night of the accident. I was trying to get away.”

  He grasped her emotions first. Hurt. Fear. Helplessness. They tapped his own buried memories even before he processed her words. “You were leaving your husband?”

  She turned. Tears glistened on her cheeks. “We had a fight.”

  Rage flooded his mind, giving him the power to strengthen his presence. He thought of blood and hidden bruises. God, no. Not Deedee. That particular form of evil couldn’t have touched her, could it? He clenched his fists. “Did he hit you?”

  “Hit . . .” She shook her head quickly. “No. He tried to stop me, that’s all.”

  The room steadied. Max crossed the floor. “What happened?”

  “He took my keys and my money. He grabbed my suitcase. I ran.” Her eyes widened. “That’s why I was driving his Jaguar. It was still in front of the house. The keys were in the ignition. I remember sliding behind the wheel and starting it up.”

  “You must have had a good reason to leave.”

  “He was cheating on me.”

  “The man was an idiot.”

  “He said it was my fault. I neglected him.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “He turned it all around and tried to make me feel guilty.”

  “So you left.”

  “The car skidded when I braked to buzz open the gates. I was driving too fast, but I just wanted to get away before he could change my mind, before the hurt wore off.” Her words tumbled over one another, as if a dam had opened. “It was the last straw. I was always the one who gave in. I made allowances, I smoothed things over. He was an expert at pushing my buttons.”

  “He must have been. You stayed with him for five years.”

  “I was a fool. I still am. I’ve been denying the truth because it was ugly. I’ve been blocking this entire memory because it didn’t fit with the way I wanted to see my marriage.” She closed the suitcase and smacked her palms against the lid, then sank to her knees on the floor. “I’m good at blocking memories I don’t want. I’ve done it all my life. It’s how I cope. I should have listened to you. You saw what I didn’t.”

  “Don’t give me too much credit. I don’t believe in marriage. Not just yours, anyone’s.”

  “My cynical subconscious. Why couldn’t you have come back to me five years ago?”

  “Deedee—”

  “Why didn’t you warn me what would happen? Tell me what an idiot I was being back then?”

  “Knowing you, you would have been too stubborn to listen to me anyway.”

  “You’re right. I wanted to believe he loved me and we were happy. I ignored anything that didn’t fit. I brainwashed myself into making excuses.” She turned, placing her back against the footboard as she drew her knees to her chest. A tear trickled into her mouth. She licked it away. “I even made excuses about our sex life. I assumed it was because of his age and the stress of his career when all along there was a much simpler explanation. He had no energy or desire left for me because he was spreading it around with everyone else. That was another one of those answers that had been staring me in the face.”

  Max knelt on the floor beside her. “It’s over, Deedee. Don’t cry.”

  “It hurts. I did love him.”

  “You believed you did.”

  “I wanted to love him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was afraid of being alone. You were right about that, too. I stayed with him because I wanted to be loved. And he’d been so kind and thoughtful and sweet throughout the funeral—”

  “Whose funeral?”

  “My father’s. He died of a heart attack. It was sudden. I was devastated, but Stanford was like a rock. He was good to me. I had been feeling so lost and then so happy when he proposed, it was like a . . .” She laughed without humor. “A fairy-tale ending.”

  “He took advantage of you.”

  “No, I went to him willingly.”

  “And you’re still making excuses.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  “I’m glad you decided to leave him.”

  “I was coming here to Willowbank, to my grandmother. That’s why I was on the highway. I hadn’t cared if I had to drive all night. It was my first impulse because this is the place I always felt safe.”

  “It’s your home.”

  “It must be the reason I came here after I was discharged from the clinic. Even without remembering why, I knew I didn’t want to return to Bedford.” She stopped suddenly. “Max, I was leaving him, I wanted to get away, so how did he end up in the car?”

  “You don’t remember that?”

  “No. The last thing I remember is going through the gates and driving past our neighbor’s house and wondering how I could have been so blind to what she was doing with my husband. I couldn’t have changed my mind and gone back to talk to him, could I?”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Yes, it does. I need to know it all. I won’t be free until I do.”

  “You’ve got it wrong, Deedee. It’s forgetting that gives you freedom.” He glanced at the bed. It still held the suitcase. He couldn’t physically remove it, so he would have to take her someplace else. He pushed at her consciousness, painting a picture of a birch grove. Pale trunks gleamed through mist tinted gold by sunrise. He used the sound of the rain outside her window, turning it into the drip of moisture from the sheltering boughs. Peace. Serenity. He stepped into it first, then held out his hand. “Come with me. Nothing will hurt you here.”

  There was no hesitation, she needed no coaxing. Her thoughts latched onto the image immediately, strengthening what he’d created and adding details that were entirely hers. The ground beneath the trees sprouted tiny blue flowers. Birds twittered in the mist. Her fingers were firm and warm as she laced them with his and stepped to his side.

  He used their joined hands to wipe away her tears. “I hate seeing you cry.”

  She rubbed her cheek against his knuckles. “Kiss me, Max.”

  The bald request surprised him. That was why he’d decided to seek her out tonight. He’d planned to enjoy the pleasure of their mental connection. It was all he wanted from their relationship. He’d had no intention of getting involved in the other aspects of her life, yet he’d created this birch grove with the idea of giving comfort, not pleasure.

  She lifted her face. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Max, please.”

  But what did he know about giving comfort? He leaned closer to bring his lips to hers.

  Their minds touched, twined, and meshed. Her passion didn’t stir.

  She clutched his shoulders, molding her breasts against his chest. “Again.”

  Max nuzzled the skin beneath her ear. This time, a tendril of heat curled between them. He focused on it, nurturing it, letting it build.

  “That’s it.” She arched her back to fit their bodies together. “Help me.”

  “There’s no rush.”

  “Do what you talked about before. Come into my mind. Join our thoughts.”

  “Our thoughts are already joined. That’s why you can feel me.”

  She tunneled her fingers into his hair. “Yes, I feel you, but not deep enough. Not hard enough.”

  It was the same for him. The pleasure he should have been getting from imagining her touch was too thin, as if it was diluted. Too much of her mind remained apart. He kissed her nose. “Take off your robe.”

  He’d barely finished forming the thought when ivory silk drifted to the ground. Mist dampened her nightgown. He drew back, wanting to admire how the
fabric clung to her curves, how much she looked like her portrait, but he didn’t get the chance. She pulled his face to hers, her hands shaking.

  The tension that swirled from her was due to anxiety, not eagerness. Max enclosed her hands between his. “Relax.” He flicked the tip of his tongue across her fingertips. “We’ve got as long as we want.”

  “No, we need to do it now while the memories are still fresh. Help me see the rest.”

  “The rest?”

  “Why Stanford was in the car. Where we were going. What happened. You already helped me loosen the block tonight, and we hadn’t even kissed.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You. It’s the reason I brought you back. You unlock all the thoughts that I’ve buried. It took me a while to figure it out, but I’ve realized you’re the key to my subconscious, Max. You do tell me the truth. That’s why when you help me let go, I remember it.”

  “Let go of what?”

  “My inhibitions, my reason. You cut straight through to my emotions.”

  “That’s why you asked me to kiss you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And that’s why you were so agreeable when I showed up tonight. You’re using me to remember your husband.”

  The answer was in her eyes. They shone with tears and with the passion he hadn’t been able to stir himself. “I’ll use anything that works.”

  He wished he could laugh. It would ease the tightness in his chest.

  She didn’t care about him. She only wanted to use him. He’d been aware of that from the start, but he’d needed this reminder of just what he meant to her. The husband who had abused her trust was still her priority. Max should have remembered that pattern. Would he never learn?

  He looked at the birch grove where they stood, at the gentle mist and the golden sunrise he’d dreamed up for Delaney’s benefit. This was the kind of thing the boy he used to be would have done. He’d wanted to please her, to give her tenderness. He would have been content to simply hold her.

  The hell with that.

  A sudden gust of wind rattled the branches above them, knocking loose a shower of moisture from the leaves. The dawn faded as clouds rolled over the sun. Lightning strobed stark white, searing away the softness. Thunder vibrated through the soles of his bare feet.

  “Max, what’s happening?”

  He clamped his hands at her waist, lifted her from the ground, and pressed her back to the nearest tree trunk. “I’m giving you what you asked for.”

  “But—”

  “You want to feel passion?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to let go?”

  The mist became rain. The leaves overhead dissolved from the onslaught, leaving no shelter from the storm. Water dripped from her hair and gleamed on her face and shoulders. Her nightgown clung like a second skin to her body, revealing every curve and dip. She didn’t seem to notice. She kept her gaze on him. “Yes!”

  “Open your mouth. Taste the rain on your tongue.” He rubbed his mouth over hers. “Taste me.”

  She turned her head to follow his movement. Her pleasure flowed across him like the rain. It wasn’t gentle or cool but warm. Demanding. Driving. Her mood had switched, adding power to the storm faster than he did.

  He licked her lower lip. “That’s it. Think of what you like. Think of me inside you. Deep. Hard.”

  Thunder crashed, closer than before. The wind whipped the bottom of her nightgown against his legs. He reached for the hem, gathered the wet satin in his fist, and pulled it to her waist.

  He would give her what she asked for, but he’d be damned if he left any room in her head for thoughts of another man.

  She whimpered as the first shudders of pleasure rippled through her mind. The colors were pure enough to burn tracks across his vision.

  Max dropped to his knees and stroked the insides of her thighs until she eased them apart. She’d asked him to kiss her. He could tell by the catch in her breathing that she hadn’t expected him to kiss her in such an intimate spot. It made no difference. He could have imagined touching her anywhere. Her mouth, her breasts, the dip of her elbow, the base of her throat; anyplace that gave her pleasure could have served to focus their passion. It was just an illusion anyway.

  She grasped his shoulders. A bolt of pure sensation fused his thoughts to hers so tightly that tears filled his eyes. For an instant, he felt as if they were one heartbeat, one soul, closer than real lovers could ever hope to be.

  But he needed no reminder that love was the biggest illusion of all.

  EIGHTEEN

  THE RAIN THAT HAD BEGUN ON FRIDAY CONTINUED OFF and on throughout the first weekend of Willowbank’s annual Waterfront Festival. Although there were a good number of visitors, it wasn’t the crowd the organizers would have hoped for. Only a few dozen music fans clad in plastic rain ponchos braved the drizzle on Sunday afternoon to gather on the benches in front of the band shell. Undeterred, a group of folk musicians were taking their turn onstage, scraping out a tune on their mandolins and fiddles. The rides of the midway that had been set up near the lakeshore twinkled with more lights than customers. Most people had gravitated to the central food tent and the open-sided beer tent.

  “They can plan for everything except the weather,” Helen muttered. She closed her umbrella, put the tip on the ground, and twirled it back and forth to knock off the water. “Hardly anyone’s here.”

  Delaney shook out her compact umbrella and collapsed it. They had paused at the entrance to the arts and crafts tent, which had been pitched between the food tent and the band shell. The smell of mustard and hot grease wafted through the rain, blending with the pungent odor of damp canvas. She glanced back to the roped-off area of the lawn where she’d left her car. Normally there were so many visitors that the closer parking spots were packed solid by this time of the day. “True, but it was easy to find a parking space.”

  Helen tsked. “We should have parked on the gravel lot and done the walk. The grass is going to be a mud bog by the time we leave.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me. The rain makes my joints ache, so I’m a bit grumpy today.”

  “Only a bit?”

  Helen laughed and pointed her umbrella at her. “Cheeky girl. I’m off to see Ada’s quilt.”

  Delaney slipped the strap of her umbrella over her wrist and trailed behind Helen. The large, wooden racks that held the quilts had been set up in rows along the back wall of the tent. Several local artisans had erected booths along the center aisle. One table held a collection of waterbirds carved from wood; another had an array of framed collages of pressed wildflowers. Quirky, feathers-and-beads jewelry was displayed next to hand-painted glazed pottery that wouldn’t have been out of place in an art gallery.

  Delaney stopped to admire a table of stained glass ornaments. A miniature blue butterfly caught her eye.

  The middle-aged woman behind the table smiled. “That’s one of my favorites,” she said. “Although, I shouldn’t admit that. It’s like saying I have a favorite child.”

  “It’s lovely.” She leaned down to take a closer look at the ornament. “And so delicate.”

  “Go ahead and pick it up.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She laughed. “The floor’s grass, isn’t it? You’d have to try hard to break it.”

  Delaney set the butterfly on her palm. It was heavier than it appeared. Sturdier, too. For some reason that disappointed her. Had she been expecting it to be as weightless as the one she’d imagined in her fantasy last week? The one that had alighted on Max’s shoulder?

  She understood the difference between fantasy and reality. She knew perfectly well that the pleasure she experienced in any of her make-believe scenarios wouldn’t be possible in the real world.

  Her wet umbrella swung against her side, sending a trickle of water down her bare calf. She saw an image of birch trees. Dark clouds. Rain. Max’s wet hair plastered tight against his hea
d as he pressed his face between her legs and—

  “I did one in violet, too. Would you like to see it?”

  Delaney blinked, stunned by how vivid the recollection had been. She did know the difference, didn’t she? She cleared her throat. “I’d like this one,” she said, handing the butterfly to the woman. “Do you have a box for it?”

  “Sorry, no, but I’ll wrap it in tissue. Is that okay?”

  “The paper’s fine.” She paid for the ornament and slipped it into her purse, then went to look for Helen.

  Initially, she hadn’t planned on attending the festival, but she’d jumped at the chance when her grandmother had asked her to come along today. First of all, the idea of being near the lake didn’t bother her as much as it used to. Learning the reason behind her aversion to water was helping to deflate it. And secondly, she needed to make the effort to get out more. She needed to be around people, real people.

  That fantasy in the storm had been incredible, but it hadn’t triggered more memories. Her thoughts had been too filled with Max. It was just as well. She should take a break from her memory hunt until she came to terms with the bombshell she’d already remembered.

  Although, what remained to come to terms with? She’d been leaving Stanford. In her heart, she must have known that all along—it had likely been the source of the itch in her mind—but she’d had to work through her own mental blocks before she could face it. Her subconscious in the form of Max had guided her. He’d consistently told her the truth. Two weeks with him had accomplished more than six months with Dr. Bernhardt.

  It was odd to think that Elizabeth had actually told her the truth, too. Part of it, anyway. Delaney remembered the phone call the night of the accident vividly now. Elizabeth had revealed Stanford’s affair with Jenna, and she’d been eager to bring up the topic of a possible divorce. The issue of Stanford’s will had never arisen, though. There hadn’t been time, since their conversation had lasted less than a minute.