The Color of a Memory (The Color of Heaven Series)

by MacLean, Julianne

  “Hello?”

  “Audrey, it’s Alex. You have to get out of the house.”

  Sparks of adrenaline lit in my veins. Tossing the covers aside, I sat up on the edge of the bed and flicked on the light. “What are you talking about?”

  The thunderous banging at the front door continued, more insistently, sending me into a blinding state of red-hot terror.

  “There’s someone at my door!”

  “Your house is on fire,” Alex said. “David just called me. He should be outside right now with a truck.”

  Only then did I notice smoke wafting into my bedroom from under the closed door. “Oh, my God.” I leapt to my feet. “I see smoke.”

  “Get out of there,” he said. “Can you go out the back window?”

  I turned to look at it. “Yes.”

  “Do it now.”

  Without bothering to put on a bathrobe or slippers, I hurried around the bed, unlocked the window and shoved it fully open. The next thing I knew I was sliding clumsily over the sill and falling onto the prickly rosebush below. The thorns tore through my pajamas and scratched the flesh on my arms, legs and face.

  “Ouch!”

  Still clutching my phone, I spoke to Alex. “I’m okay. I’m outside now.” I crawled out of the garden onto the damp, cool grass, then rose to my feet and turned around. “Holy crap!”

  The kitchen windows were aglow, flickering with orange-colored flames inside. “The house really is on fire!”

  “Go around front and tell them you’re okay,” Alex said. “Is there anyone else inside?”

  “No,” I replied, beginning to shake from shock as I ran around the side of the house.

  When I reached the driveway, two fire trucks were parked out front and a third tanker was turning onto the street. Lights flashed and a couple of firefighters were dragging hoses across my lawn.

  My house is burning. With everything I own inside of it.

  I waved my hands at them. “I’m here!” I shouted. “I’m the owner!”

  Glancing at the front door, I noticed it had already been broken down. I assumed someone must have gone inside to rescue me.

  A fireman approached. He wore a coat with reflective stripes, an air tank strapped to his back, a helmet and facemask. “Is there anyone else inside?” he asked over the roar of the engines. An ambulance pulled up just then.

  Giant plumes of black, billowing smoke rose up from the burning roof. I heard glass smashing, the snap and crackle of the flames.

  “No, it’s just me,” I told him. “There’s no one else.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  His gaze swept over my face with concern. I glanced down at my trembling hands and realized I was scratched and bleeding from the rose bush thorns.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I did this when I climbed out the window.”

  He laid a gloved hand on the small of my back and guided me further away from the house. “Come this way.”

  I followed him in a daze as he led me toward the paramedic who was just hopping out of the ambulance.

  “This is the homeowner,” the firefighter said. “She climbed out the back window.”

  The paramedic opened the rear doors of the ambulance, fetched a blanket and quickly wrapped it around me. “You were lucky to get out of there,” she said. “It looks pretty bad.”

  I glanced back and realized the firefighter had left me. He was now speaking to one of the others, no doubt letting them know there were no other people inside.

  Oh God, my house. Would they be able to save it? To save anything?

  And how did it start? Had Melanie done this?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Just as the paramedic finished cleaning all the bloody cuts on my face and arms, a cab turned onto my street. A police officer waved his arms to prevent it from crossing the barricades. It pulled to a halt and Alex hopped out of the back. He spoke to the officer who immediately let him through, then looked up at my house, now entirely engulfed in flames.

  “Alex!” I called.

  He heard my voice and limped toward me. Still wrapped in the woolen blanket, I hurried to meet him.

  “Thank God you’re all right,” he said, pulling me into his arms.

  “I’m fine, but I haven’t seen David at all,” I said. “They’ve been keeping me here, well out of the way.”

  Alex watched a firefighter spray water through the broken living room window while another dragged a hose through the front door. “Do you have any idea how it started?” he asked.

  “None,” I replied. “I was sound asleep when you called—and thank God you did or I might not be talking to you right now. But how did you know?”

  “One of your neighbors saw the flames and called 911,” he explained. “As soon as David realized it was your house, he called me.”

  We stood together, watching the scene unfold. By now the fire had spread through the entire house and flames were spiking out through the roof. I’d never seen so much smoke in my life. The sound of the fire crackling, timbers snapping and breaking was deafening as the roof collapsed before my eyes. I knew more engines were on their way because I could hear more sirens in the distance. A cop was speaking through a megaphone to a crowd that had gathered to watch.

  “Will they be able to save anything?” I asked, already knowing the answer but not wanting to face it.

  “Not likely,” Alex replied. “I hope you have good insurance.”

  “I do, but I only bought the house last year. It’s mortgaged to the hilt. There’s hardly any equity. I’ll have to start from scratch.”

  He put his arm around me and I rested my head on his shoulder. “Everything will be okay,” he said. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

  A police officer approached us. I stepped back and wiped a tear from my cheek.

  “Are you the homeowner?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied, hugging the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “My name is Audrey Livingston.”

  He held a notepad and pen, and seemed eager to write something down. “Do you have any idea how the fire started?”

  “No, I was asleep with the bedroom door closed. One of my neighbors saw the flames and called 911. I don’t know which neighbor it was.”

  “Were you using the stove last night?” he asked. “Any chance you might have left a curling iron on? Are you a smoker?”

  “No to all those questions,” I replied. “I was out for the evening and when I came home around midnight, I watched a little TV, but that was it. Then I turned off all the lights and went to bed.”

  He wrote that down, and I glanced uneasily at Alex.

  “I don’t want to make false accusations,” I said, “because I don’t have any proof, but I’ve had a few run-ins with a woman who doesn’t like me very much. I’m not sure if she’s capable of something like this, but if there’s any chance it might be arson, she could be a suspect. There’s been a report filed about her.” I looked up at Alex. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize to me,” he said. “I don’t know if she’s capable of this either, but if she did do it, we need to know.”

  The cop questioned me further about the report I’d filed, then asked if I had a place to stay, because obviously I couldn’t go back to my house.

  “You can come home with me,” Alex offered, “and stay as long as you need to.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, not wanting to sound ungrateful, but I felt as if, since the day I met him, my whole life had begun to spiral out of control.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Strange as it may seem for me to say this, there would come a day when I would want to thank Melanie Wilder for setting fire to my house.

  Yes, she had done it. The fire department had confirmed it was arson, and the police found enough evidence on the scene and in Melanie’s apartment to charge her with arson and attempted murder.

  It was also revealed to us that she had been convicted previously for assault. At the age of sixteen
she beat a girl unconscious with a baseball bat—because the girl had been texting Melanie’s boyfriend.

  Under the advice of her lawyer, Melanie confessed to setting fire to my house, was later found guilty and sentenced to eight years in a mental health facility.

  But why would I ever thank Melanie for destroying everything I owned and nearly killing me in the process?

  Because if it hadn’t been for her, I might not be where I am today.

  * * *

  On the morning my house burned down—after I finished answering questions and there was nothing left for me to do on the scene—I went with Alex to his apartment.

  At first I was hesitant about staying with him and suggested I go to my friend Cathy’s place to wait for my insurance to come through. Cathy had already left for work that morning, however, and Alex was persistent about not leaving me alone. And I did want to be with him. He was knowledgeable about everything related to the fire and he made me feel safe. He was attentive and devoted—partly, I suspected, because he felt guilty for bringing Melanie into my life.

  Since I had nothing but my cell phone and the pajamas I was wearing, he took me shopping for clothes and shoes and sundry items like shampoo and a toothbrush.

  Though I felt lucky to be alive, I couldn’t stop crying—not only because I’d nearly died in that fire, but I lost irreplaceable treasures that day. Everything I owned was gone, including my purse, credit cards and passport. My photo albums and all my favorite books and DVDs were burned to a crisp. I’d just bought an expensive down comforter for my bed, which I loved. That, too, was gone. My laptop with all my files and videos no longer existed.

  Alex was there for me emotionally and held me close that night when I woke up imagining that I smelled smoke. I was concerned because his apartment was on the third floor. How would we escape if the building was burning from the bottom up?

  He reminded me that Melanie was in custody, so she could no longer try to hurt me.

  “What if someone downstairs is smoking in bed?” I asked.

  He showed me the fire escape and tested the batteries in all the smoke alarms. He also went downstairs to check for fire in the stairwells, then ventured outside with a flashlight to look over the exterior of the building.

  All this, he did simply to ease my mind. When he came back upstairs he held me close and kissed my forehead, gently stroked my hair. “You’re safe here,” he whispered until I fell asleep.

  I did feel safe and protected, and for that reason I chose to stay with him—at least temporarily—until I got my affairs in order.

  Little did I know it was a choice that would affect the rest my life.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “It’s been two and a half months,” Cathy said to me as we walked through the mall on a Saturday morning licking ice cream cones. “Don’t get me wrong, I really like Alex, but is this what you want? You always said you’d never live with a guy. That you’d want to be married first.”

  As it happened, I’d received my insurance settlement not long after the fire, which had taken care of my mortgage. There was still a fair chunk of change left over from the value of my furniture and belongings—enough for a modest down payment on a new house—so I had no excuse not to be back out on my own by then.

  “I did say that,” I replied, “but whenever I think about living alone again and coming home to an empty house at night, I want to crawl into a cupboard.”

  Cathy linked her arm through mine. “I’m sure that’s a normal reaction after what you’ve been through, but you could get a roommate or a dog. And you know you’re always welcome at my place. There’s a spare bedroom in the basement. Bob and I would love to have you stay with us for as long as you need to.”

  I bit into my waffle cone and gave her a sidelong glance. “Do you think I’m making a mistake, staying with Alex?”

  She took a moment to form a reply. “No. Like I said, I think he’s a good guy. It’s just that…you barely knew him when Melanie burned your house down. You’d only been dating a couple of weeks. Now suddenly you’re living together. I just don’t want you to drift along and end up getting hurt.”

  I was unnerved by her choice of words because I’d always been a top student at school and had pursued my nursing career with relentless ambition. No one had ever accused me of drifting.

  This made me lose my appetite. I approached a garbage can and tossed away what was left of my waffle cone.

  “Sometimes it does feel like we’re just playing house,” I admitted at last.

  “How so?”

  I buried my hands in my jacket pockets. “Well… We never actually discussed the idea of living together or making a serious commitment. So I guess I’m not entirely sure what’s going on between us. Are we a couple? I honestly don’t know the answer to that question. I wish I did.”

  Cathy considered everything. “What do you think he would do if you told him you were going to start looking for your own place? If you thanked him for letting you stay with him, but said it was time for you to get back on your own two feet, would he say, ‘You’re welcome, Audrey. It was no trouble at all. Let me know how I can help.’ Or would he be devastated and beg you to stay?”

  Cathy and I stepped onto the escalator. “I have no idea what he would do.”

  “What would you want him to do?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Beg me to stay, I guess.”

  She laughed softly. “That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

  We reached the second floor and stepped off the escalator. “Let me ask you this,” Cathy said. “Are you in love with him?”

  We walked slowly past a crowd of teenagers. “I’m not sure. I think I’m afraid to say yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not sure I could ever trust him to be the kind of man I’d want to marry.”

  “Why not?”

  I gazed at the fashionable, faceless mannequins in the storefront windows as we passed by. “He can be a real flirt sometimes. Beautiful women will always be batting their eyelashes at him and that can be tempting, lead to indiscretions. I don’t want to be the ball and chain who waits for him at home.”

  “If this is because of Melanie,” Cathy interrupted, “don’t forget she was a nutcase. Whatever she said to you, you can’t trust it. It shouldn’t affect how you feel about him.”

  “It’s not just that,” I replied. “It’s my own gut feeling. Remember that first day when I met him in the ER? I told myself to stay away from him. I believed he was a player before I ever met Melanie.”

  “But do you still feel that way?” she asked. “Even after living with him for two months?”

  I considered the question carefully. “I don’t know, and I don’t know how he feels either.”

  “Then you should talk to him about it. If you’re uncomfortable asking him point blank where your relationship is going, you could always lead with ‘I should probably find a place of my own,’ and see how he responds.”

  “That’s brilliant,” I said. “It’s a clever way to feel him out. I’ll do it tonight.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  After I said good-bye to Cathy at the mall, I went to the supermarket to pick up ingredients for a special dinner I planned to cook for Alex. His favorite meal was lasagna with Caesar salad, so I spent the afternoon slicing, dicing and stirring tomato sauce in his apartment.

  As I began to layer the sauce over the noodles and cheese, however, I found myself swallowing back the urge to gag.

  Eventually unable to continue, I dropped the spoon onto the counter, which splattered sauce everywhere, and hurried to the living room to escape the smells of the kitchen. I pressed the back of my hand to my nose and stood for a moment, heart racing, fearing I might vomit.

  Thankfully the sensation passed, but I felt a little light-headed, so I sat down on the sofa and put my head between my knees. I sat in that position for a long time.

  “Please, God, don’t let me be pregnant,” I whis
pered.

  A few minutes later, I was able to stand up.

  Not being the type of person to stick my head in the sand or worry about things that might never happen, I grabbed my purse, left the unfinished lasagna on the counter and ran down to the pharmacy to buy a test.

  * * *

  An hour later, I finished preparing the lasagna. I slid it into the oven and it was fully cooked by the time Alex walked in the door.

  “Smells great in here,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it onto the chair. He was out of his cast now, so he moved into the kitchen with ease, noticed the lasagna on the stove and the salad bowl sitting on the table next to a bottle of wine.

  He then found me lying on the sofa.

  “Did you have a good day?” he asked, bending to kiss me on the cheek.

  I rose slowly to my feet. “It was interesting,” I replied. “Are you hungry?”

  “You know me. I’m always hungry.”

  “Then let’s eat.” With an uneasy wave of apprehension, I followed Alex into the kitchen, served up two plates and carried them to the table.

  He picked up the bottle of wine and poured us each a glass. I didn’t offer any objection, though I didn’t touch mine.

  “I’m glad you’re home,” I said, “because I need to talk to you about something.”

  He looked at me uncertainly. “Okay.”

  As I recalled my conversation with Cathy earlier that day, I wasn’t sure how to begin. In the end, I settled with this: “I’ve been thinking… It’s probably time I started looking for my own place.”

  To this day, I still wonder why I opened with that statement. Was I testing him? Yes, I suppose I was.

  He set down his fork and leaned back in his chair. “There’s no hurry.”

  “I know,” I cheerfully replied. “You’ve been really great about letting me stay here. I appreciate it, but we both know I should have my own place.”

  “But why?” he asked, as if it was an insane prospect to even consider.