by Judi Lind
Edging past Storm’s tense and unyielding body, Elisa made her way across the foyer where Heather and Carey were standing shoulder-to-shoulder. “Where have you two been all morning?”
Heather’s gaze dipped down to where Elisa’s hand rested against her thigh. When she looked up, her eyes were wide and shone with excitement. “You found Jay’s letter!”
Elisa raised her hand and frowned at the documents. For a few moments, she’d managed to forget all about Jay and his damnable will. Dragging her weary mind back to Heather’s question, she responded absentmindedly, “Yes, I did.”
“Just out of curiosity, where was it?”
Forcing a weak grin, she shrugged. “Would you believe I left it wrapped up in my bathrobe? Miriam found it when she hung it up in the laundry room.”
Heather’s copper curls rippled as she tilted her head. “So, uh, what did he have to say?”
“Jay? Nothing. I mean, I haven’t read it yet. That’s what I’m going to do now.”
Heather’s brow furrowed. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
Elisa took a step back and stared quizzically at her friend. “Why on earth not? The worst has already happened.”
Although her words were spoken to Heather, Elisa realized she was truly speaking to herself. Why on earth not? Jay’s missive couldn’t possibly hurt any more than the jagged guilt that already tormented her day and night. Why not read the damned letter and put the past behind her at last?
Reaching for Carey’s hand, Heather tugged him to the staircase. “I don’t know, except this whole thing has been very…traumatic for you.” Her mouth curved down in a sympathetic frown as she patted Elisa’s shoulder. “Maybe you shouldn’t open up old wounds. It could only hurt you more.”
Carey nodded sagely. “If you ask me, Heather’s right.”
Elisa refrained from reminding him that she hadn’t asked.
Stroking his chin like a scholar contemplating the meaning of life, he continued, “Maybe you should let the past stay buried. All you could dig up are smelly old bones.”
Storm shouldered his way between them and glared at the smaller man. “And maybe you should stay out of things that don’t concern you.”
“That’s not fair!” Heather exploded. “You’ve only known us two days, and I’ve known Carey for…a lot longer!”
At that moment, David meandered out of the parlor, where he had been since Elisa’s departure. Stepping into the fray, he poked Heather’s shoulder with his forefinger. “Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing. Heather, in my capacity as Jay Morrow’s attorney, I have to tell you that you’re completely out of line insinuating yourself into his private concerns. If my client had wanted you to be privy to his affairs, he would have made the appropriate provisions to keep you informed.”
Heather slapped aside David’s hand. “I was privy to his affairs. I was his secretary. And since he died, I’m the one who’s held everything together—including his girlfriend here. You think Jay trusted you? Think again. He went over every single document you drafted with a microscope. So—”
“All of you, please stop shouting.” Elisa knew they couldn’t hear her over their own raucous voices, but she had to try. Her head was splitting.
One cool, low-pitched voice resonated over the others. “I’ll leave you to your friends.” Storm picked up his shoes and, giving Elisa a last, searching gaze, ambled back toward the kitchen.
Her first thought was that she’d lost her only ally. Then she remembered Storm wasn’t her ally; he was…was what? That was the problem, she thought sighing inwardly, he was really nothing to her. Nothing but a willing transitory lover.
The fury of mingled voices erupted anew, drawing her attention from the distracting problem of Storm Delaney. The trio gathered around her were all shouting at once, their opinions falling on a closed-minded audience.
A jagged spear of light pierced her temple, and she knew another of her “episodes” as Heather called them, was rapidly approaching. The pounding in her head, combined with the cacophony of their voices, was nearly unbearable. She felt dizzy, and a bolt of nausea sliced through her stomach.
Dreading the kaleidoscopic frenzy of memory fragments she knew would shortly follow, she held up her hand. “Stop! All of you. Just stop.” When she saw she had their grudging attention, she tried to defuse the situation. “As much as I appreciate your concern, I’m perfectly capable of deciding whether or not to read my own mail. Believe me, if Jay’s death didn’t destroy me, then reading his suicide note isn’t going to do it either.”
Heather was the first to respond. Even through the throbbing in her temples, Elisa noted that her tone was disbelieving, suspicious. “A suicide note? You mean that’s all he sent you?”
Stunned by the younger woman’s coldness, Elisa stared at her friend through narrowed eyes, wondering if she’d ever really known Heather at all. “That’s all?” she repeated. “I should think a man’s last words would be enough.”
“That’s not the way I meant it,” Heather protested. “I only meant that—”
Elisa held up her hand, precluding further clarification. “It’s okay. Truly. Just forget it, please?”
Heather’s fisted hands wedged against her hipbones. “What’s the matter with you these last couple days?”
“I’m just tired. And this hurricane has me on edge.”
Giving a sagacious nod, Carey concurred. “Of course it does. All of us are restless and jittery.”
But Heather wouldn’t be sidetracked. “I think it’s more than some howling wind that has you upset. You haven’t been the same since you brought Dr. Doolittle home with you.”
Refusing to be drawn into another argument, Elisa silently turned away and plodded up the stairs. Her ankle burned on the third step, and she wondered if there was any part of her that was still functional. Certainly not her mind.
Going to her own room, instead of Storm’s, where she’d spent her most peaceful night in weeks, she was heartened to discover that Hank had accomplished miracles. The armoire was upright, and in its rightful place against the wall. Only an extremely critical eye could have spotted the tiny nicks and mars on the mahogany finish. He must have used a whole bottle of scratch cover.
The demolished bedstead had been replaced by a homey brass headboard. Decades of gentle polishing had left a lustrous patina on the antique that couldn’t be duplicated by modern reproductions.
Plumping up her pillow, Elisa stretched out to see if the new bed was as comfy as it looked. “Mmm…” She closed her eyes and yawned. Soft as an old-fashioned feather bed, but with enough firmness to prevent backaches. Perfect.
She lay with her eyes closed for a few moments, but the sanctuary of sleep wouldn’t come. She knew why; Jay’s letter was weighing on her mind like a curtain ballast. There would be no rest until she read it.
One problem at a time. That was all she had to do. Examine the first one, resolve it, and then worry about the next. Jay’s letter was certainly her most long-standing burden.
She scrunched upright and poked another fluffy pillow behind her back. Lifting the chimney off the kerosene lantern, she struck a match and lit the wick. In a moment, the room’s dimness was brightened by a warm, flickering glow that somehow reminded her of childhood, and the secure feeling of her mother’s fleshy arms wrapped around her. When this was over, maybe she’d go back to the barrio after all.
Since she couldn’t think of anything else to delay the unwelcome task, she slid a fingernail under the flap and ripped open the edge of the padded envelope. She blew softly into the opening and shook the envelope to dislodge its contents. A small blue plastic computer disk fell to the bed, followed by a folded sheet of paper.
She wrinkled her brow, unable to grasp Jay’s intention. Why would he put his suicide note on a computer disk? He’d known she was a computer-illiterate. Setting the disk on the night table, she opened the single sheet of paper.
It was Jay’s letterhead, all right. Cream
y bond paper with a stylized blue jay in the upper corner, followed by the clean, uncluttered block heading he favored. The body of the letter had been typed, and it ended with Jay’s precise signature.
It was dated the day he had died. She retrieved the envelope; it was postmarked that same awful day. Taking a deep breath against the guilt that always engulfed her when she thought about him, Elisa lowered her head and began reading Jay Morrow’s final words.
Dear Elisa, It seems silly writing a letter to you at lunchtime when you’re coming by the office tonight. I hope you’re coming to tell me that you realize you’ve made a mistake, and you want to marry me after all. That’s what I hope. You’re the only one who can make that happen. In case something unexpected happens and we don’t see each other tonight, I want to make sure you get this disk. Please don’t tell anyone that I sent it to you. Not anyone. It could be dangerous. Just put it in a safe place until I ask for it. And trust me. I’m entrusting my life to you. Please don’t let me down.
Jay
The short note fluttered from Elisa’s numb fingers. What could it mean? What was on this small piece of plastic that had been so important to Jay?
Something in that missive had hit a discordant note. She thought about his curious, almost sinister words. One section, and she couldn’t pinpoint it, wasn’t logical. And Jay Morrow had been a logical man.
She picked up the note and read it again. And again. After the third time, she carefully folded it, stuffed everything back into the envelope and wedged it between her mattress and box springs.
She didn’t know what the disk contained or why Jay had asked her to hold it for him. But one thing was painfully, alarmingly, clear. The police were right; his death hadn’t been a suicide. He had not opened his fourteenth-floor window and pitched himself to the ground. Not on purpose.
Because if Jay Morrow was contemplating suicide, he would have had no reason to slip out of the office and mail this package. No reason to ask her to hold on to the disk until he wanted it back.
If Jay had known he was going to be dead before nightfall, he had also known that he wouldn’t have further need of this disk. He wouldn’t need anything ever again.
Chapter Eight
Giving up on any thought of a nap, Elisa took a soothing sponge bath and changed into her favorite summer outfit, a blue-and-white striped cotton skirt and white scoop-neck T-shirt. She wrapped a wide jute belt around her slender waist and slipped on a pair of leather sandals. Running a brush through her long, straight hair, she dabbed a bit of gloss on her lips.
She stepped in front of the mirror and whirled around, enjoying the play of fabric as her full skirt ballooned out, exposing her dancer’s legs. If she closed her eyes and flexed her imagination, she could almost believe her skirt was an organdy tutu and she was doing her warm-ups before a performance.
She sank onto the bed and dropped her chin into her hands. No point reliving dead dreams, she thought, with a surge of uncharacteristic self-pity. That wonderful-horrible period when she’d been the star, heralded on marquees and wined and dined by every wealthy man in New York, was over.
One night.
That was all it had taken to bring the curtain down forever. A single night. And the worst part was that she couldn’t even remember how it had happened. Oh, she’d picked up enough from news stories and police reports to have a pretty clear picture of that fateful—and fatal—night.
She and Jay had been dating for a few months. At first they’d been strictly friends, casual partners for sporadic dinners and the occasional show, Elisa had enjoyed his company and thought she had the best of all worlds; a demanding yet absorbing career, and a no-pressure relationship. Jay, however, hadn’t been content with the status quo.
As time passed and he pressed for more and more emotional involvement, Elisa could no longer ignore one glaring truth: She didn’t love him.
The evening before he died, they’d gone out to dinner and she’d gently told him she was breaking off the relationship. Jay had taken it badly. He’d even broken into tears and begged her to reconsider. When she rejected that possibility, his professed love had turned to raging hate.
He’d screamed at her, calling her a cold, selfish bitch who always wanted everything her way. One role suited her, he said, that of the snow queen. Ice-cold Elisa, the beautiful shell with no heart.
His words had burned like salt pellets hurled into open wounds. Unable to fathom his sudden personality change, she had run from the restaurant. And that had been the last time she saw Jay Morrow alive.
He’d phoned her at the rehearsal hall the next morning, sheepish and remorseful. Saying he’d been under tremendous stress the past few weeks, he’d begged her to see him once more. Just one more dinner, so that they could end their relationship as friends—the way it had begun. He’d also said he needed her advice on something he couldn’t discuss on the phone.
She sat bolt upright. Why hadn’t he told her over the telephone? Had he been afraid of being overheard? What had been so important it could be conveyed only in person?
She reached beneath the mattress and grabbed the envelope. Walking around the bed, she hid Jay’s letter and will inside an old pair of sneakers. Then she dropped the bright blue disk into her skirt pocket and dashed out the door.
Heather had been Jay’s private secretary for over a year. If anyone would know what had been on his mind, it was surely her. Elisa glanced at her watch. Lunchtime. Right after their meal, she’d get Heather alone and ask the questions she should have posed weeks ago.
After all these weeks of racking her brain with no progress, wouldn’t it be ironic if Heather possessed the scrap of information Elisa needed to open up those repressed memories?
STORM WAS SITTING in the empty parlor, staring at the landscape painting on the far wall by the boarded-up window. He’d been focused on it for nearly fifteen minutes, but even under threat of death, he couldn’t have said what the painting portrayed. Sunset? Seascape? A mountain village? He had no inkling, because his mind was locked on Elisa.
Boy, he’d really screwed up. Yeah, Mr. Big Shot psychiatrist, going to fix the helpless little dancer. The fact that she hadn’t asked for any help hadn’t distracted him in the least. What a jerk.
What had he been thinking? That she wouldn’t mind if he eavesdropped, because he was “trying to help”? He’d been smart enough to earn a medical license—why hadn’t he been smart enough to mind his own business?
Hearing the dainty tap of footsteps coming down the staircase, he cocked his head and listened. Elisa was finally leaving the sanctuary of her room. He stood up and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He wouldn’t blame her if she never spoke to him again. But if he could just get her to listen…
Drawing a deep, prayerful breath, he went to the doorway, just as she strode into view. That same deep breath whooshed out of his lungs as if he’d been struck in the chest with an eight-pound sledgehammer.
For the first time since he’d met her, Elisa’s stride was strong, invigorated. There was purpose in the set of her shoulders and confidence in the tilt of her chin. Her long hair fell in a glistening ebony waterfall to the middle of her back. He leaned against the door frame, enjoying the way she moved.
Compared to the others staying at the dark, dreary hotel, Elisa stood out like an illuminated angel atop an undecorated Christmas tree.
Just as she drew abreast, he stepped into the foyer. “Hi, Princess. Can I talk to you?”
She hesitated, glancing around as if searching for an escape route.
“It’ll just take a minute. Promise.”
Staring deep into his eyes for a long, probing moment, she finally nodded and preceded him into the parlor. Storm noticed she deliberately sought out the wing chair in the far corner; she didn’t want him too close.
Grabbing the ottoman from in front of Hank’s easy chair, Storm dropped it at her feet and hunkered down. “I don’t know which thing I should apologize for first, bu
t—”
“An apology truly isn’t necessary.” She made as if to rise, but after locking gazes with him, dropped back into the chair.
Ignoring her comment, he continued, “Let’s start with my first blunder. I don’t know how our conversation in the kitchen got so twisted up. But in the immortal words of a former president, read my lips—I am not now, nor have I ever been, interested in Heather Gellis.”
Elisa gave him an appraising look. “Interesting analogy. If I recall correctly, that former president lived to eat those words.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not much on metaphors or similes. But I excel in honesty.”
“That remains to be seen.”
Whew…Despite the sweltering heat, the lovely Ms. Montoya was ice-cold. And she wasn’t going to melt easily. But at least she was still here, still listening. He cleared his throat. “Okeydokey. Going on to my second apology. This one, I know what I did wrong—and it was unforgivable. But there were mitigating circumstances.”
She raised a perfectly arched dark brow. “Oh? That’s an interesting defense. Yes, Your Honor, I did take off my shoes so I could sneak over to the door without being heard. And, yes, I did actually listen to a private conversation to which I was not a party. But, Your Honor, my motives were really pure.”
“And they were!” Rising to his feet, Storm’s hands flew to his temple, then buried themselves in his hair as he paced to the fireplace and back. “If you’d drop the sarcasm for one minute and listen—”
“You’ve certainly exceeded a minute. I presume you need more time to fabricate—I mean elaborate—your story?”
For the first time since his fifth birthday, Storm felt like stomping his foot in anger. Elisa had imprisoned herself in a fortress of bland indifference. She wouldn’t allow anything or anyone to scale that wall and pierce her hidden emotions. And he knew she had strong feelings; he’d had just an inkling last night. Just before that ill-timed kiss. The fire in her firm body had been close to blazing.