Delaney's Shadow

by Ingrid Weaver

  But she hadn’t been seeking pleasure; she’d been seeking memories.

  There. See? She’d had a perfectly rational reason for the fantasy sex. A logical reason. Unfortunately, in spite of Max’s best efforts, she hadn’t remembered a thing. Drat.

  She went to the compost bin, lifted the lid, and banged the bowl hard on the edge. A wasp buzzed past her hand. The scent of rotting vegetables and old grass clippings hit her like a slap of reality. She replaced the lid fast, pressing her lips tight against a desire to laugh.

  It wasn’t funny; it was pathetic. The years of being married to Stanford must have left her starved for affection. Either that, or she was finding a new avenue for denial. Sure, why worry about whether someone was trying to harm her? That was definitely unpleasant. It was much better to channel her energy into the arms of a make-believe lover.

  The hair on her arms tingled beneath her blouse. She glanced over her shoulder toward the back gate.

  A tall, dark-haired man was coming up the path that led to the pond.

  Good God, she must have conjured him up by thinking of him. “Max?”

  His right arm was in the sling across his waist. He placed his left hand on the gate and lifted his face. Blue eyes met hers.

  And she remembered how his eyes had glowed as he’d rubbed his teeth over her hip bone.

  The bowl slipped from her fingers and bounced on the grass. She wiped her palms on her skirt. “Max, I didn’t mean to call you.”

  The gate creaked loudly as he pulled it open.

  “This isn’t a good time . . .” She stopped. The gate had creaked. He’d swung it on its hinges.

  Max couldn’t move things. His touch felt real in her fantasies, but he had no physical presence except in her mind. What happened in the world they created was merely an extension of her imagination. She understood that. So she couldn’t have just seen him open an iron gate.

  He stepped onto the lawn and strode toward her. His shoes connected firmly with the ground. His shirt was pearl gray and had the liquid drape of fine cotton. The breeze rippled the fabric against his chest and arms. The bandage on his forehead was stark white in the sunshine. No stray lock of hair covered it this morning. His hair was combed straight back from his face.

  It wasn’t Max; it was John Harrison.

  Then why was he watching her as if he knew she was picturing him naked?

  Maybe because she was staring at him with her mouth open and her cheeks burning. God, she would have thought she was too old to blush.

  She left the bowl where it had fallen and walked forward. “Good morning, John,” she called. She paused to wait for him in the shade cast by the big oak. “This is a surprise. How are you today? You must be feeling better if you decided to take a walk. At least, I hope you are. But I suppose there are plenty of activities you can do with a sprained wrist.” She heard herself babbling and cringed inwardly. Wasn’t the blush bad enough?

  “Yeah,” he said. “You’d be surprised what I can do.”

  The injuries she’d imagined Max having hadn’t hampered him much, either. His arms had felt as strong as always. He’d seemed to enjoy it when she’d kissed his bruises. She thought of the discolored flesh on John’s shoulder, the broad chest, the line of soft, dark hair that led past his navel . . .

  “See something you like?”

  She jerked her gaze away from his pants. They were similar to the pleated pair he’d worn at the festival. They were almost identical to the ones Max had worn the first time she’d met him at the pond. He hadn’t worn a belt then, either.

  And his question was word-for-word what Max had asked her the first time she’d seen him naked.

  This had to be more than coincidence. How could two men be so much alike? Her instincts were screaming with recognition, regardless of how insane the idea was.

  What if it was possible? What if there really was such a thing as a psychic connection between two complete strangers?

  What if her deepest wish had come true, and Max actually existed?

  No, it was crazy. Impossible. She had to get a grip.

  Yet now that she’d allowed herself to think it, the idea wouldn’t go away. Her heart pounded so hard it stole her breath. What if? What if?

  “I brought back your towel,” John said.

  What if she was simply punchy from lack of sleep?

  He reached into his sling with his left hand and brought out the linen tea towel that she’d wrapped around the banana bread she’d taken to him. It had been folded into a square and appeared to have been washed. “Thought you might want it.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  “You’re a good cook.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Were you thinking about him?”

  “Who?”

  “The friend I remind you of.”

  “When?” She had to stop speaking in monosyllables.

  “When you were staring at my crotch.”

  She took the towel from his hand. “Do you enjoy trying to make me uncomfortable?”

  “What would you like me to make you feel, Delaney?”

  “I suspect that depends on you, John.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to wonder why you want to shock me.”

  “Shock you? You were the one ogling my pants.”

  “Okay, fine. I was thinking about him.”

  “Then he must be good in the sack.”

  “He’s a fabulous lover. Everything I could dream of. More than that, he’s the very best friend I’ve ever had. I’ve loved him from the moment we met.”

  He snorted. Just as Max did whenever she mentioned love. “That doesn’t mean much. You said you were a kid when you met.”

  “Children are capable of all the feelings adults have, only they’re less complicated.”

  “Sure. They don’t have choices. They don’t know any better.”

  “My friend often pretends to be cynical, too.”

  “Pretends?”

  “I know in his heart he’s the same boy I remember.”

  “He told you this?”

  “No, he’s been showing me. He might snarl and posture sometimes to show he’s tough, but he’s always there when I need him.”

  He shoved his hand into his pants pocket. “Sounds like you need a cocker spaniel, not a man.”

  “Max.”

  He lifted one eyebrow.

  “That’s his name,” she said.

  “You want me to be honest?”

  “I’d like nothing better.”

  “I didn’t come here to listen to you talk about another man.”

  “He’s so much like you, I get confused.”

  “You don’t know me. We only met two days ago.”

  “But I feel as if I do know you, John. You snarl and posture just like Max, but you can’t hide who you really are.”

  “And who do you think I am, Delaney?”

  “You’re a good person.”

  He laughed. “You must have hit your head harder than I did. Didn’t anyone at the hospital check you out for a concussion?”

  “I’m not wrong. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have risked your life to push a stranger out of the way of a car. You wouldn’t have the sensitivity to be able to design such a beautiful house. You wouldn’t have encouraged a sweet little old lady to pursue a career in fabric art, and you wouldn’t have worried about judging the crafts category fairly at the festival. That’s what I’ve seen in two days.” She searched his expression, watching for a glimpse of Max, wishing that her brain could confirm what her heart was telling her. “I do know you.”

  “Okay, honey. Next time you drop by my place, I’ll unzip and you can know me a hell of a lot better.”

  “Don’t be hateful.”

  “Hateful? You wouldn’t recognize hate if it bit you in the butt. You’d probably make some excuse and deny anything hurt.”

  “How can you say that if you claim you don’t know me?”

  “I’ll tell you what I’v
e seen in two days. I’ve seen you flit around like a butterfly, brushing your smiles over anyone who crosses your path as if the world is basically good, playing Betty Crocker for an ex-con as if warm banana bread and ten minutes of being neighborly can change who I am.”

  He hadn’t raised his voice throughout his outburst. His words had all the more impact because of his control.

  And for some reason, it made her throat ache. He was lonely. He was pushing her away.

  She laid her fingers on the sling where it covered his forearm. “You weren’t listening. I don’t want to change who you are.”

  “Sure, you do. You’re looking for a stand-in for this friend of yours. You figure I’ll do, so you’ll use me until you get what you need, and then you’ll flit off without a backward glance.”

  “If you think so little of me, why did you come here this morning?”

  “Mainly, I wanted to volunteer my services.” He glanced at where she touched him. “But now I’m thinking there are a whole lot of services I could offer you.”

  She dropped her arm to her side. “What did you have in mind?”

  “If you need to go out, give me a call, and I’ll ride shotgun.”

  It was the last thing she would have expected, especially after the turn the conversation had taken. “I don’t understand. Why in the world would you do that?”

  “My schedule’s flexible. Someone should keep an eye on you in case that hit-and-run wasn’t an accident.”

  “How would you know it might not have been an accident?”

  “Sounds like you don’t believe it was, either.”

  “Toffelmire suspects it could have been deliberate. Did he tell you that, too?”

  “He didn’t have to. I got to thinking about the way he slanted his questions at the hospital, and it wasn’t hard to figure out.”

  “Thank you, but I can take care of myself.”

  “Hate to break it to you, Delaney, but you’re not batting a thousand when it comes to self-preservation.”

  “Then you wouldn’t mind if I pointed out that you’re not in any condition to act as someone’s bodyguard.”

  “You want references? My old cell mate can tell you I know how to watch someone’s back. Besides, saving your ass could get to be a habit.”

  “While I appreciate your concern, if the situation does get to the point where I need protection, I’ll hire a security service. You don’t need to feel responsible for my safety. I’m already far too much in your debt.”

  “Yeah, that’s true.” His eyes gleamed. “How about posing nude for me, and we’ll call it even?”

  “You’re trying to make me uncomfortable again. Why? Is it to hide the fact that you offered to do something nice?”

  “I’m not hiding anything. I’m an artist. I appreciate beauty, and I’d like to see more of yours.”

  It wasn’t an invitation, it was another push. Was she merely seeing what she wanted to see again? So desperate not to be alone that she was making excuses for John’s behavior? Logic told her his offer to protect her probably wasn’t sincere. It could be another attempt to unsettle her. “That’s not going to happen,” she said.

  “Too bad.” He looked at her breasts. “I would have made sure you enjoyed yourself.”

  She crossed her arms. “Good-bye, John.”

  “See you around, Delaney.”

  She watched him go. He swung the gate closed behind him without glancing back. His image didn’t fade or grow hazy; he walked away like regular people did until the woods hid him from her view, because he was a real man.

  Sighing, she turned back to the house. She squinted at a flash of sunlight from the stainless steel bowl she’d dropped on the lawn. She peered at the light in the distance as her phone began to ring . . .

  What light? And she didn’t have her phone with her. It was in her bedroom.

  The sound of the phone startled her. She’d assumed it was in her purse, along with her money and her credit cards. She’d forgotten she’d dropped it on the floor of the car before she’d gone into the house with Stanford.

  Delaney’s pulse was already elevated from her encounter with John. She sucked in a deep breath, striving for calm. She wouldn’t reach for the memory this time. She couldn’t force it. That never worked. She had to let go and trust herself, believe that the rest would come.

  Slowly and deliberately, she lowered herself to the lawn. She was still near enough to the oak tree to be within its pool of shade. The grass was cool beneath her legs. The heated seat warmed her back while more warmth from the dashboard heater blew over her feet. She twisted the dish towel in her hand as she turned the steering wheel to the right.

  The pavement was slick with melted snow. It gleamed in her headlights as she rounded the bend. In the distance the lighted sign of a gas station glowed in the darkness. The highway was deserted; she felt more alone than ever in her life. The sound of her phone was like another light in the darkness. She pulled to a stop on the shoulder so she could answer it.

  For the second time that night, the voice she heard was Elizabeth’s.

  “He called the police, Delaney. You won’t get far.”

  “I’m not stealing the car!”

  “Technically, you are, which is why he didn’t hesitate to enlist the police. If you don’t know what my father is capable of by now, then you obviously should never have married him.”

  “Did you call to gloat?”

  “No, I called to help.”

  “Why should you help me?”

  “Because you’re leaving my father, and that’s what I’ve wanted from the day you married him. Tell me where to meet you, and I’ll take you wherever you say.”

  Delaney’s eyes filled. For five years she’d tried to be friends with Elizabeth. She would have given anything to hear the earnestness in her voice that she heard now. She would have loved to win her cooperation. How ironic that this was the price.

  She blinked away the tears and focused on the gas station. The lights above the pumps were off and the building was dark—it appeared to be closed for the night. Her stepdaughter was right. Whether or not Stanford had reported his car stolen, she wouldn’t get far in it. There wasn’t enough gas in the tank to make it all the way to Willowbank, and even if the station up ahead had been open, she had no means to buy more. “You would really do this for me?”

  “Not for you, Delaney. What I’m doing, I do for me.”

  She didn’t want to trust her, yet she couldn’t think of a reason why Elizabeth would be lying. It was she who had triggered the events of the evening, so she had plenty of motivation to help them through to their conclusion.

  “What’s going on?”

  Delaney tightened her grip on the towel. And it was once again a towel, not a steering wheel or a phone. She glanced up.

  John had returned and was standing in front of her.

  She waved him away and squeezed her eyes shut. She pictured the Jaguar, the winter night.

  His knee bumped her thigh as he knelt beside her. “Delaney?”

  Headlights flashed in her rearview mirror. The white BMW pulled into the gas station and came to a stop behind the Jaguar. Delaney unlocked her door and stepped out before she realized that Elizabeth wasn’t alone.

  “Where are you?” It was John’s voice again, cutting through the memories, pulling her back to the yard.

  She put her hands over her ears. “Go away!”

  “Hey, I thought you needed my help.”

  “You said you’d help me, Elizabeth!” Delaney slapped her palm against the driver’s side window of the BMW. “You said you wanted me to leave.”

  Elizabeth kept her hands on the wheel. She spoke through the glass. “I made a deal with my father.”

  “Elizabeth!”

  She threw the car into reverse and backed away. Her wheels spun on the wet pavement as she accelerated onto the highway.

  Stanford caught Delaney’s arm. “Don’t blame her, darling. I can be very persu
asive.”

  “You’re two of a kind. I was a fool to trust either one of you.”

  “You must have known I was the one who asked her to call you. Deep down you wanted the chance to sort this out.”

  She broke away. “We had five years to talk.”

  “Which is why we can’t end it like this.” He put his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. The light at the entrance of the gas station shone full on his face, draining it of color. The self-assurance he normally draped himself with was gone. He appeared every day of his seventy-three years. “Please, Delaney. I’m begging you. Give me an hour, that’s all I ask.”

  “Stanford—”

  “One hour. If you still want to leave, I won’t stop you.”

  Elizabeth’s taillights had disappeared. The highway was once again black. Delaney was in the middle of nowhere. She had no money and was almost out of gas. Unless she decided to walk to Willowbank, she had no option but to believe him.

  “It’s cold,” he said, his voice quavering. “Let’s talk in the car.”

  She shivered as the memory faded.

  Warmth flowed over her hands. She opened her eyes.

  John had taken his arm from his sling and had enclosed her hands with both of his.

  The contact with his skin was electric. Tingles chased through her nerves, just as when Max touched her, yet the sensation was more intense than anything her imagination could have created. This was living flesh against living flesh, and the connection was so powerful it made her head spin.

  John leaned closer. “What happened?”

  “I know how Stanford got in the car. Elizabeth set it up. She’d claimed he’d called the police but she lied to me. So did he. I should have kept going, even if I’d needed to walk, but I felt sorry for him because he looked so old and sad, and damn it, she knew all this. She could have told me months ago. I don’t understand—”

  “Who the hell is Stanford?”

  She stopped. Max knew. John wouldn’t. God, this was too confusing. “Stanford was my husband.”

  “The old and sad guy.”

  “He wasn’t—”

  “Who’s Elizabeth?”

  “My stepdaughter. She might have been the one who hit you.”

  “And I thought my family was dysfunctional.”