by Polly Iyer
“I got enough.”
“There’s a part of me that liked my uncomplicated life just fine before you came into it. I went to work every day, came home, and started over again the next day. Emotions make things complex, and I don’t need that any more than you do. But when I didn’t hear from you for four days, it bothered the hell out of me. I hated that. It made me feel needy.”
“I’m sorry.” He told her about Miami. “I won’t lie. The first couple of days I had to think things through. You’re not an ordinary woman. I don’t want to blow this.” He pulled her close. “I don’t want to lose you.”
She buried her face in his chest so he couldn’t see her answer, but she said it anyway. “I don’t want to lose you either.”
He moved back and lifted her chin “You’re not getting away with that. What did you say?”
“I said, I don’t want to lose you either.”
He kissed her hard on the lips. When Luke ran his fingers through her hair, then around her shoulders and across her back, Abby reacted as if she were injected with a powerful stimulant that jump-started all her remaining senses.
“You’re a beautiful woman.”
The words prompted an extra heart flutter. “Am I? I don’t know what I look like any more. I always thought that was the best thing about being blind. You know, never seeing myself grow old.” She laughed, unsure of what to say or do next.
He touched the corner of her eyes. “It won’t matter because that’s surface, the outside. You’re beautiful on all sides.”
She caught her breath, reeling from maybe the best compliment ever, and this time when he took her in his arms she didn’t recoil. Luke’s kisses were soft, and as she responded with a lack of inhibition she hadn’t experienced since before her marriage went sour, they became more passionate, more desperate. She wanted him.
Fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, her hands reached inside, almost clawing at him, until they fell back onto the sofa, pressed against each other. His hand slipped under the bottom of her shirt and lifted it over her head. When he caressed her breasts, soft moans escaped that were lost in his silence. She thought of nothing. Not the intruder, not the threats, not the attacks. When they teetered on the edge of the sofa, almost falling off, he took her hand and led her willingly to the bedroom, to her unmade bed, where she heard his clothes cascade to the floor, before he took off the remainder of hers.
If Luke McCallister looked like he made love, he was Adonis and she was Aphrodite. He touched her face as she had touched his, tracing his fingers around her eyes and nose and lips without saying a word. She felt the effect all the way to her sex.
He paused at the small indentation on her left temple, where the .22 caliber bullet ended one life and began another, and brushed his lips over the spot, the gravity of her tragedy becoming his. Cradling her face, he kissed her, gently teasing his tongue into her mouth, moving his hands from her face into her hair, enveloping her into the cocoon of his warm body.
Abby’s nerve endings were ultra-sensitive, their responsiveness making up for part of what she’d lost. Luke’s mouth roamed all over her—kissing, biting, sucking—sending erotic messages soaring through her. She thought of the last movement of a symphony, before the clash of the cymbals. But as always, she remained silent, afraid to let emotions define her, the realization lost that her sounds of pleasure would be for her ears only.
He traveled down her neck to her breasts, drawing one nipple into his mouth, flicking the tip, while he gently rolled the other between his fingers. As he moved down her torso, stroking his tongue over her flat stomach, then lower, she pulsated with anticipation. He skirted around, teasing, licking, until she willed him to enter. And he did, with his tongue, deep, until her hips thrust in rhythm. He continued as long as her orgasm lasted, keeping one hand on her throat. She didn’t know why until she released a cry of delight, and she felt her own vibration against his fingers.
He came up to meet her. Her sensitive fingertips traveled over the Braille of his body, plotting a course over the hills and valleys of his muscular arms and chest, feeling the landscape of his back and down to the swollen protrusion between his legs, damp with expectation.
“Jesus, Abby, it’s a little late to ask this, but are you protected?”
“Don’t worry, I’m safe.”
Then he entered. And the cymbals clashed, and her heart beat like a kettledrum, and her voice cried out in pleasure as his warmth exploded inside, and she came again.
Lying side by side, Luke’s arm wrapped around her. He ran his fingers over the lids of her closed eyes, wiping a teardrop that clung to her lashes. He turned her face toward him to see her answer. “Why are you safe?”
She lay still for a long time before she spoke. “I had my tubes tied.”
“Why?” he asked, still touching her face.
She didn’t answer, because this had been her secret for eight years.
“Why?” he coaxed.
“Stewart wanted another child, a son. I feared for his genes in my daughter and didn’t want another child to inherit his illness.”
“Why didn’t you use the pill?”
“I did, but he found them and destroyed them. He watched my every move as if he had sensors, but I managed to sneak away one day. I couldn’t risk bringing another child into the world. He was very sick, Luke. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Luke pulled her close and ran his fingers through her hair. “I never want to hurt you.”
She lifted her head to him. “Loving you could never hurt.”
Now, lying spoonlike, her head on the firm pillow of his arm, she felt his hand caress her breasts. The act was more soothing than sexual. She wanted to tell him how she felt after finding out Stewart was alive. She wanted to but couldn’t. Her conflict of emotions from the last few days shifted from joy to pain to anxiety, as if one part of her life wouldn’t let the other parts rest.
In the eight years since she lost her sight, Abby conditioned herself to deal with the present. Yes, Macy crept into her mind; she always would. No normal parent forgets a child who predeceases her. But she had learned to put things in their places, or she could never have gone on.
Lying next to Luke, she let the affection they shared linger like sweet chocolate on her tongue—satisfying for the moment, knowing she would crave more. She closed her eyes and fell asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing.
Chapter Twenty
Liquid Courage
They woke a few hours later with Daisy nuzzling into Abby’s neck. “Okay, girl.”
“I’ll let her out,” Luke said.
Abby dragged herself out of bed. “I’m starved. All I’ve had is a cup of weak coffee.”
“I haven’t even had that,” Luke said.
“We need something healthy to replenish our energy,” she called after him. In the kitchen, she pulled out oranges, yogurt, and bananas. Luke made coffee when he came back inside. Then she told him more about her time with Stewart. Luke asked her to repeat a couple of sentences, but she felt his strong presence, offering a sense of security she now welcomed.
When she finished, he described his research into Stewart’s family and the connection with the reporter from the Charleston newspaper.
Luke refilled both coffee cups. She blew on hers before sipping. “You said Stewart walked out of the hospital with a supply of pills. He had help then. Did your reporter friend have any ideas?”
“It had to be a guard or an attendant,” Luke said. “He needed money and a car. Pete forced someone down there to look into it, but no one’s admitting anything.”
“Why did he have to force someone? The man escaped. He’s a murderer. They should have circulated bulletins all over the state.”
“Should have, but the hospital never reported Stewart’s disappearance. The police knew nothing about it until we pushed the envelope. In fact, since the shooting, Stewart Gentry might as well have been dead for all the follow-up coverage he got. When
Lucy said he was alive, I couldn’t believe it.”
Ah yes, Lucy. The burning sensation between Abby’s shoulder blades returned, and she massaged the back of her neck.
“When the Charleston PD called Pete back, they told him not to make anything public until they got a handle on the situation. Pete said fuck it and put everything out over the wires. The powerful fingerprints of Carlotta Gentry are all over this. She probably has the police under her control. I hate that. It proves money talks.”
“I could have told you that. Especially Gentry money.”
Luke’s hand covered hers. “After Lucy told us the news, I read everything I could find about Gentry. Newspaper reports after the shooting said nothing more than he wasn’t expected to live. They never said he died. I assumed he had or was in a vegetative state. Then he was forgotten.”
“That’s what Mrs. Gentry wanted everyone to think. They sealed him in a Ziploc prison. No news in or out.”
“You’re not feeling sorry for him, are you?”
“How could I?” But deep down, Abby did feel sorry for the man she married, who had disappeared into a black world that rivaled her own. She couldn’t explain that to Luke. She didn’t understand it herself. “The Gentry family put so much pressure on him to conform to their expectations. A lawyer or banker, certainly not an artist. They never gave him credit for his talent and were astounded when he made it big.”
She remembered the digs and taunts Stewart’s mother inflicted like cuts from barbed wire. Stewart just laughed. He wouldn’t be pulled into defending himself. How Abby had wanted to tell the witch to leave him alone, but she held little sway within the Gentry family. The memories stung like a never-healing wound, and she felt the pain of rejection all over again.
“They disapproved of me—the daughter of an alcoholic on scholarship, struggling to make ends meet. Mrs. Gentry thought Stewart should have married someone with the right pedigree.”
“When did his father die?”
The question gave Abby pause. “Shortly before Stewart became ill, I think. Yes, I remember. Stewart, Macy, and I went to Charleston after the plane crash and stayed until after the funeral. Then he went back a week or so later. He seemed agitated when he returned, different.”
“Different how?”
“Confused. I thought it was because of his father’s death. Mrs. Gentry sent her physician to help. Stewart fought against it, but the doctor insisted. So did Mrs. Gentry. Stewart finally gave in and took the medication. I guess he felt he needed it. Unfortunately, he kept getting worse. Strange, other than a few incidents, I really don’t remember much about that period.”
“And that’s when his delusions started?”
Abby thought back. “I think so. The timeline is blurred. He’d been doing well until then. No sign of illness. His work was in demand for big money. Macy was six and starting first grade, and I had gone back to school to finish my doctorate. I couldn’t handle much more.”
Memories from the worst period of her life forced their way back. She retold the story of Stewart’s day-by-day slide into hell. “Lucy lived in Texas at the time with one of her beaus—some fake oilman with a competitive drinking problem. No help there.”
Luke gathered the dishes and put them in the sink. “What did you do?”
“Tried to be supportive.” Abby pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t want to talk about this any more, okay?”
“What did you say? I didn’t see.”
She faced him. “No more.”
“Just one more question, then I’m finished.”
“One more.”
“Do you think the man in your yard was Stewart?”
She knew the answer before Luke asked. “The man in the yard was tall with big hands, and when he pressed his body against mine, there was mass. He was big. Stewart’s fingers are long and tapered. He’s tall but slight, probably more so now than he was eight years ago. And the man in the yard chewed cloves. During the time I spent with Stewart, I never once smelled cloves. So the answer is no, the man in the yard wasn’t Stewart.”
“That’s what I thought. I want to check my email.
Abby put the dishes in the dishwasher.
Luke returned to the kitchen. “Guess what? Stewart’s private hospital? Carlotta Gentry is chairman of the board.”
“Doesn’t prove a thing. A mother in control of her son’s illness. Who wouldn’t do that for her child? I would, if I had the means. Besides, because of their foundation, she and Mr. Gentry were involved in the medical community, especially concerning mental illness. I believe it was in Mr. Gentry’s family. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“There’s something that doesn’t add up. I’m not sure what it is, but I think we need to find Stewart for his own protection—as well as yours.”
“Why?”
“Gut instinct.”
“Didn’t you say he took a few months’ supply of medication when he left?”
“Yes, but…I need Matt to do a little sleuthing.”
“About what?”
“I’d rather not say until I hear back from him. I’m going online.”
“I’ll shower.” When she finished, Luke was still on the computer.
“Pete contacted the owner of the cabin,” Luke said. “Stewart prepaid three months rent in cash.”
“I wonder how long he planned to hold me there.”
“No telling.”
“If Stewart needs the pills, why leave them? I’ll tell you why. He doesn’t care anymore. Kidnapping me was his last act. His last attempt at a normal life. When he found I’d escaped, nothing mattered. Stewart wants to die.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know Stewart. I’m everything he’s about, even now.”
“Then we definitely have to find him.”
Abby wondered what was going through Luke’s mind. What made him think Stewart was in trouble? He clearly didn’t want to tell her. Maybe ignorance is the better road. She’d remember to tell Lucy that to justify her eight-year deception.
Abby had avoided her mother the last two days. Though she knew Lucy had protected her, she felt betrayed. Analyzing the situation, she alternated between understanding and condemning. Lucy had relieved the pain and anxiety of knowing Stewart still breathed the air he’d denied his daughter, but it hurt that she assumed Abby lacked the courage to face the hand she was dealt. Maybe Lucy was right on both counts. Abby needed to speak with her.
She got Luke’s attention. “I need to see Lucy, Luke. I need to clear the air.”
“I’ve been waiting for that,” Luke said. He signed off and they drove to Lucy’s without calling. Her car sat in the driveway, but she didn’t answer the door. Abby recalled that Meyer lunched with his daughter on Sundays, and Lucy used the time for household chores. She rarely napped, and unless she didn’t want to face her daughter, she never skulked behind closed doors.
“I have a key. Remember, I used to live here.” She fished in her purse and handed Luke the keys. “Number three on the ring,” she said. He opened the door as far as the security chain allowed. “Lucy, are you in there?” Abby called through the crack.
When she didn’t respond, Luke asked, “Is there another door?”
“A sliding glass door leads to the deck, but it’s usually locked.”
“Wait here.”
Luke ran around the side of the house. Abby’s heart pumped in her throat. When Luke returned, he said, “She’s sitting on the sofa. I’m going to break the chain, okay?”
“Is she moving?”
“No, but she’s not dead. She’s sitting with a bottle of scotch in front of her and a half-filled glass in her hand.”
This was another one of those things Abby didn’t see coming. “Break it. Break it now.”
Luke moved her back and burst through to the sound of splintering wood. He took Abby’s arm and led her inside.
“Lucy?” Abby called. She knew Lucy’s house like she knew her own, but fear of somet
hing happening to her mother caused her to lose focus, and she bumped into a table.
Luke grabbed Abby’s arm and whispered in her ear. “Lucy hasn’t even looked up. She’s sitting immobile, contemplating the drink.” He moved Abby into the room. “Are you okay, Mrs. Gallant?” he asked.
The strong scent of scotch and Luke’s description of Lucy rekindled Abby’s childhood memories. The small girl taking the glass from her mother’s hand after she keeled over onto the table. The teenager coaxing Lucy to give up just one more.
“I’m going to take this out of your hand,” Luke said.
“Oh no you’re not. You leave it right where it is.”
Lucy responded in a tone that Abby hadn’t heard in a long time.
“I didn’t see what she said, but I can tell I’d better not touch that drink.”
Abby sat down beside her mother and reached for her hand. “What happened, Lucy?”
“Meyer had a stroke last night. He’s in intensive care. The doctors aren’t sure he’ll make it. If he does, he might be permanently impaired.”
That word again: impaired. Lucy meant paralyzed, but I won’t call her on it this time. “Have you seen him?”
“We were together when it happened. I recognized the symptoms and called 911. They operated on him last night and said if it wasn’t for me, Meyer would have died.”
“Did you go to the hospital?” Abby asked.
“I spent all morning there, but I was a wreck. His children told me to go home and that they’d call as soon as they knew something.”
Abby moved closer, her voice calm. “So why the drink? Do you think that will make everything go away?”
Lucy took her time answering. “I’m not like you, honey. I’ve never been able to confront things the way you do. I’m weak; I’ve always been weak. That’s why I drank in the first place, so I wouldn’t have to face what I couldn’t handle.”
Abby wanted to tell her how weak she had been after being shot, the temptations she contemplated, but this wasn’t a time for her. This was Lucy’s time.