The phone interrupted my calculations. A mildly frantic Ellen demanded, “Is Mother there?”
“She was. But she’s headed out again. Cancelled lunch. Didn’t she tell you?”
“No, she just left. I didn’t even notice at first, thought she’d gone off with the other group. But she left without saying a word to me!”
“What made her leave? Do you know?” I guess I was hoping Ellen would mention something about a message, about a call from the state historical society, something that would mean Mother hadn’t lied outright.
But Ellen said slowly, “I don’t know. Last I saw her, she was right next to me in the rose garden. Listening to President Urich lecture on soil.”
I thought of Mother’s cautious reaction to my mentioning Urich, my tacit accusation, the folder full of material on him. “He didn’t say anything that would have upset her, did he?”
“I can’t imagine what. He was just talking about breeding new varieties. He bragged a bit. But not in an offensive way—making a joke about it.”
“About what?”
“Oh, he bred some hybrid and grew it in his backyard, and he said the ex-wife got custody of the bush when they got divorced.”
His ex-wife? Could Mother be . . . jealous? “Did he say where? The bush? The ex-wife?”
“I don’t really remember—oh, it was when he was at some college in Maryland. He said the soil was sort of clay-ey. Why?”
“I . . . don’t know. Look, Mother said she was going to Charleston. Took off with an overnight bag. And the laptop you bought her. Only she drove north. Not west.”
Ellen asked tentatively, “Do you think . . . she got disoriented?”
“No. She’d know the route to Charleston if she were blindfolded.” I sighed. “Ellen, could she have gone to Maryland? To . . . I don’t know. See that rosebush?”
“I’m coming home,” Ellen announced.
As I hung up, I noticed that the message light was blinking. I punched the button. “Laura, it’s Jack. No emergency. Just want to ask you something. I’m back in town—meet me at my house around six?”
Jackson was just out of the shower, to judge from the dampness of his dark curls and the unbuttoned shirt. He held open the screen door, and after I walked through, he let it bang shut. He had Tom Waits on the CD player, and from the set of his mouth and the shadow in his eyes, I could tell he was in a Tom Waits sort of mood. I asked, “Where’ve you been?”
He stretched out on the leather couch, looking weary, his feet bare and oddly vulnerable at the end of his cargo pants. The afternoon sun slanted in through the wooden blinds, the shadows striping his body. “I was down in Bristol.”
I studied his face. “Bad news?”
He shrugged. “I guess. It’s over. We officially gave up. Again.”
“I’m—I’m sorry.”
He closed his eyes. “You should be. It was your fault.”
“My fault?” That was rich. After I’d done my damnedest to let him stay true to her. “How is that?”
“Once Michelle heard you were back in town, she wouldn’t stop about it. My Emmy-winning ex.”
“Emmy-nominated,” I said.
“Whatever. She just couldn’t believe I’d steer clear of you.”
“It doesn’t seem fair.”
“Yeah, I know. But she’s always had this little bit of jealousy about you. Because I wouldn’t tell her much.”
I knew women. Telling her more would have just made her more jealous. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t bother. It was doomed anyway. I think this is just an excuse. We were getting to the one of us has to move issue, and that looked to be unsolvable.” He laughed shortly. “You know, it’s like ‘I’d die for you, but I won’t relocate for you.’ Modern romance.”
Now I understood why he’d called me. Or I thought I understood. “So . . . you’re saying you’re free.”
“Is that what I’m saying?”
I wanted to throw something at him. “You tell me, how about?”
His eyes were still closed. “Look, babe, the truth is, I broke up with Michelle yesterday, left my daughter in tears yet again, drove most of the night, worked all day. I’m tired and depressed and—”
It didn’t sound good. “And?”
“And if you want anything from me, you’re going to have to do all the work.”
“All the work?” Oh. Boy. “You mean—”
“I mean the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.” He opened his eyes and looked at me. “Or maybe the flesh is willing and the spirit is weak. I can’t tell. But you want it bad enough, you make it happen.”
I was outraged. Who the hell did he think he was, lying there like some sybarite, telling me that if I wanted him, I’d have to come and get him? I wouldn’t have taken that kind of attitude from the biggest Hollywood star.
But . . . I did want him. His shirt had fallen open and I stared at that hard tan chest of his, and I wanted to touch it. It felt so different, wanting again. Dangerous. I took a step towards the couch. He’d closed his eyes again, and I thought maybe he would fall asleep if I didn’t do something. So I took another step. And then I was standing by his side, looking down at his face, the weary set of his mouth. “What do you want me to do?”
He wasn’t asleep. He opened his eyes, just for a second. “Do whatever you want.”
Damn him.
What did I want?
I wanted to get that stupid shirt off him. It wasn’t doing anything worthwhile, as his chest was bare and only his upper arms and shoulders were covered. Useless shirt. So I let my hand drop to the collar—I only had to bend a bit to grab it—and I tugged. With a murmur of protest, he lifted his head and let me tug the shirt off one arm, and then the other.
Then he dropped back down with a sigh. “I guess that’s a start.”
I was getting a bit irritated. Wasn’t he even going to touch me?
Apparently not. I stood there indecisive for a moment, and then sank down on my knees beside him. I put my hand on the drawstring waist of his pants, and got an immediate and amazing response—suddenly, under my fingers, under the cloth, stirring . . . emergence.
I almost drew back. This was where I’d always drawn back, this past year. The undoubted evidence of a man’s lust, a man’s aggression—I waited for the panic to overcome me.
But there was no panic. It seemed pointless to be afraid now. After all, he didn’t even seem to notice, in his drowsy state, that he had a lovely big hard-on.
I noticed, of course. I could hardly ignore it, close as it was to my hand.
Grimly I untied the drawstring and pulled at the waistband. Another muttered protest from him, but he let me slide the cargo pants off, down past his knees. I yanked them free of his feet and sank back on my heels with a sigh of satisfaction.
Nothing underneath. He was naked now. And completely vulnerable. I’d never really seen that before, how a man could be so vulnerable and yet still so powerful, but that is what nakedness did to Jackson. No protective covering, no shield, no defenses. Just the tan skin and the rigid muscles and the hard-on and the . . . trust.
Of course, I still had my defenses. I was fully clothed.
I did slide off my sandals. Then I touched him. I just let my fingers do what they wanted to do— they brushed his chest, just below the collarbone, then darted to his jaw. My thumb found its way to his mouth, tracing his lower lip.
“Mmm,” he said, and I felt something on my thumb. His tongue. Fire shot right through me, right down to that poor neglected erogenous zone of mine. Wow. If he kissed me—kissed me on the mouth, maybe . . . I could almost imagine.
I bent a bit lower, so that our mouths were only inches apart. He opened his eyes, but didn’t move. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” I said, in my lowest, sultriest, Marlene Dietrich voice.
“You’re in charge. Do what you want.”
I wanted to hit him. Instead I lowered my head and kissed him. He responded slowly, as if he we
ren’t sure about this. But when I slid my hand behind his neck and deepened my kiss, I felt him move under me. I was having an effect, whether he was going to admit it or not.
With my free hand, I undid my blouse, because it was apparent he wasn’t going to bother with that task. I fumbled my bra open, and drew back so I could bare myself to him. I cupped my hand under my breast and let my fingers roam to the nipple.
Now he was watching, a light flickering in those dark eyes. Now, finally, I had him interested.
He raised his hand towards my breast, then, as if it were too much for him, let it drop back down to his side. “Pretty,” was all he said, but as I watched, his hand closed on the fringe of the afghan. I could see white on his knuckles.
I took his hand and tugged it free of the fringe, then pulled it to my breast. His fingers curled over it, and my nipple hardened instantly against his palm. Then, reluctantly, he reached out with the other hand, sliding it behind my back and pulling me closer. He slid his hand under my breast to bare the nipple, and even raised his head a crucial inch or so, and kissed me there, a slow, sweet kiss.
It ended, too soon, as he lay back against the cushions again. He was obviously too tired to follow up, and here I was, burning.
I yanked off my skirt and my panties. But while his eyes widened and his erection pulsed, he didn’t move until, impatient, I touched myself where the burning was. Then, his voice a bit annoyed, as if I were making too much trouble for him, he said, “I guess I can do that.” And he slid his hand over mine, his fingers sliding into the spaces between my fingers. “Oh,” he whispered. And “Kiss me again.”
I obeyed him. I was supposed to be in charge, but I wasn’t sure anymore what that meant. All I knew was his touch, and his kiss, and the sweetness of the feelings inside me.
“Laurie,” he murmured against my mouth. “Baby.”
Gently he pushed me back, so I was kneeling again. He sat up and slid down to the floor, ended up sitting with his back against the couch. He opened his arms. An invitation. And I accepted. I slid over him, slid onto him, and those arms closed around me. I was safe again, with him, next to him, in my own body again.
Sometime that night we got into his bed, into the cool clean sheets, and for the first time in a long time—maybe in twenty years—I slept securely in a man’s arms. At some point, I felt Jackson’s hand slipping down my body, and felt no instinctive protest. It was his idea this time, and that didn’t frighten me. I was right to trust him, to trust in the magic of our shared past. He restored myself to me.
We woke at the same time, when the first light slipped through the drawn drapes. It was dark still, but I saw in his eyes that momentary disorientation when he realized that he was holding me. And then, there was the sadness. He was remembering, not me, but Michelle, the final loss of that dream of reconciliation.
“It wasn’t really my fault, was it?” I asked.
He didn’t have to ask what I meant. “No. I think we just couldn’t put the pieces back together. And there’s a limit to the number of times we can put Carrie through our experiments.”
“What are you going to do?”
He shrugged. “What I’ve been doing. I’ll go down there every week. I’m not going to make Carrie do the traveling just to make it more convenient for me. I’ll get an apartment down there or something.” Burrowing his head into my shoulder, he said, “Tell me she’ll be okay.”
“She’ll be okay. She’ll see more of you than a lot of kids see of the dads who supposedly live right there.” I added, “My dad died when I was twelve. I turned out okay. I knew he loved me, and that helped.”
“Great. So Carrie will run off with some biker when she’s sixteen, like you did.”
“She should be so lucky.” I stroked his hair. “You were clever last night, weren’t you? Making me come to you. You knew that would disarm me, make me feel in control. You were . . . intuitive.”
“I was lazy.” Then he moved back a couple crucial inches, and the sheet fell in between us, and we weren’t touching anymore. “So . . . now what?” His voice went a little hard. “You got more use for me, or are we done for the—”
Before he could finish, or I could come up with an answer, the phone rang and he grabbed it. During the brief conversation, he disengaged himself from the bedclothes and sat up. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
He hung up and headed for the bathroom. I heard the shower running. I felt him leaving me in more ways than just that one. And I couldn’t stand it. Bolder than I’d ever been, even before the problem started, I slipped past the shower curtain and slid up against his wet back. He hesitated for a moment, then turned, sliding against me, and held me hard against him as the water beat down on us. “I have to go, babe,” he said. “And you do too.”
“I do?”
“Yeah. It looked like something weird happened out at the Super-8. Someone heard the sounds of a struggle inside a room, and when the manager got to the room, the door was open.” He climbed out of the shower and toweled off. “He smelled fumes that made him dizzy, so he called the fire department.”
I followed, dripping water, as he headed for his closet. “What do you need me for?”
“I need you to go be with your sister.” He yanked on a uniform shirt and grabbed his gun belt from a hook behind the door. “It was your brother-in-law’s room, and there’s no sign of him. And the fumes—they came from a cloth on the floor—soaked with chloroform.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In his squad car, I fought through my shock and remembered what had been nagging at me. “Tom. He’s been through this before. He was kidnapped and held hostage for more than a year in the Middle East. He finally escaped. You don’t think that they came after him again?”
He gave me a skeptical glance. “To Wakefield? I think someone would have noticed if a bunch of Middle Eastern types came into town. Not the most tolerant and open-minded group of people, our citizens. But,” he added thoughtfully, “he’s a journalist, right? Maybe there’s some story he was working on?”
I shook my head. “I doubt it. He’s mostly just teaching now, from what Ellen said. I don’t know anyone who would have it in for him.” Except, perhaps, Ellen. I wasn’t clear what happened between them, but they were at odds, with him hanging out at the Super-8 and her at our mother’s house. I wasn’t to mention that to Jackson, however. I trusted him—especially this morning—but one starry night wasn’t enough to overcome my instinctive wariness.
Or my loyalty to my sister. Something was going on with Ellen, and I was going to make her tell me what— and what it had to do with this crime against her husband.
Ellen was scared. But not scared enough.
I sat beside her on the brocade couch in the front parlor when Jackson showed up later, flanked by two patrol officers. In his hand was a transparent plastic evidence bag containing a running shoe. An old one, beat up and worn down at the heel.
Ellen rose to take the bag from him and then just held it. “Yes, it’s Tom’s. Where did you find it?”
“Outside Harriman’s Caverns. Right there by the guardrail.”
“The caverns.” I took the shoe from Ellen and gave it back to Jackson. “They go back—”
“For miles. Yeah. We’re getting some experienced cavers to lead a search party. And searching the woods above there too. But . . . it could just be a diversion, you know. To get us to concentrate over there, when he’s being held somewhere else. So I want to make sure we’re covering all the bases. It’ll be easier to find him if we have some idea of who might want to do something like this.”
“You don’t think it was just random.”
He almost smiled. “I guess I think the odds are pretty low that some guy who just happened to have chloroform with him would just happen to decide to kidnap a stranger—a grown man who might fight him off. And just happen to pick a fairly prominent man too.” He shook his head. “I think it was someone who wanted to kidnap your husband particularly. S
o I have to ask you some questions about why he was here, and what he was doing.”
“Okay.” Ellen’s voice was so soft I could hardly hear. I took her hand and led her to the couch. We sat there, holding hands, and I could feel her tension in her grip.
Jackson was gentle in his questioning, but Tom’s residence at the local motel hadn’t escaped his notice. “Why wasn’t he staying here with you?”
She didn’t answer for a moment, then said, very coolly, “We’d had an argument. I told him just to go home, but he wanted to wait and see if I got over being mad.”
“What was the fight about?”
Now she shot him a level glance. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t kidnap him, so whatever we fought about isn’t relevant.”
“You don’t know that,” Jackson replied. “Why don’t you tell me?”
I knew something was wrong. Ellen was looking away, past me, and refusing to answer. I didn’t think Jackson could arrest her or anything like that, but—but I didn’t want any trouble, not now, not with Jackson and me . . . “She doesn’t want to tell you,” I said, improvising, “because, well, it’s about Mother.”
She shot me a sharp look, but didn’t object, probably waiting to hear what I’d come up with. “Mother’s—well, you know. She might not be quite as . . . lucid as she used to be. You saw her after that accident. We don’t know yet if it’s a stroke situation, or just medication, or something worse. But if she can’t live by herself anymore, well, Ellen’s home is the logical place. She’s only a hundred miles away from here, and she is the eldest . . .” I did my best not to look over at Ellen for her reaction. I didn’t really think this was the issue between them, considering how she had reacted when I proposed it before. But it would do to pacify Jackson. “Tom might not be as open to having his life disrupted, especially by a mother-in-law who has never quite accepted him.”
Jackson studied me for a moment, then transferred his regard to Ellen. “So you don’t see any connection between that dispute and this kidnapping.”
The year She Fell Page 18