Tainted Love

by Louisa Trent

  Handling the envelope as little as possible, she shoved the letter into the side pocket of her gown. Then jumped to her feet. The walls were closing in on her.

  She held out her hand to her grandmother. "Show me the gardens. Please?"

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "You have gone pale, child," Victoria said, clasping her grandchild's slim fingers in her gnarled grip. "Your hand is like ice. Has something upset you?"

  "It's nothing. Unimportant."

  "I see. Well, we needn't talk about ... unimportant nothings ... right now if you would rather not, dear. After all, this is only your first day home. Ample time later to discuss whatever it is that is bothering you."

  The glue holding her together all these years had started to fail. Lillian mustn't let it happen! She was a grown woman; the days of running crying to her nana with every little nick and scrape and ... death threat ... were long since past. Victoria Hill was an intelligent woman, and already suspicious. Lillian read alarm in her sharp eyes; heard misgiving in her questioning voice. It wouldn't take much for her grandmother to start piecing certain things together.

  Determined not to show how disturbed the letter had made her, Lillian stretched her tight lips into a carefree smile. "May I borrow a pair of gardening gloves and boots, in case there is time to dig before the sun goes down?"

  Victoria pulled a pout. "And here I thought you had come to Bar Harbor to see me when all along the gardens were the real reason for your visit."

  "You found me out!" Gratefully, Lillian went along with the tease, neither of the women fooling the other.

  Victoria clucked: "Our recent rains have turned the soil to mud back here--why not change out of your gown first?"

  At the thought of entering her old bedchamber, Lillian felt her knees go weak. Ten years had passed, and she still wasn't ready to walk up those stairs again.

  "Difficult to worry over dirtying a gown already covered in traveling dust." Holding open the screen door, her grandmother preceded Lillian down the pitted, granite stairs.

  "You need comfortable clothes for gardening. I do hope the trousers I have for you will fit." Victoria giggled like a schoolgirl.

  "Grandmother! Really! I am positively scandalized. Trousers?"

  "I hazard to say, they will soon be all the rage, especially for athletic pursuits. So much less cumbersome than a bulky riding habit when one is seated on a horse." Victoria twittered. "I purchased us both a set in a mail-order catalogue."

  At Lillian's raised brow, Victoria continued with inordinate relish. "No corset is worn underneath, my dear. When wearing trousers, the natural female figure is emphasized. I tell you, Tony was quite aflutter when he saw me gardening in mine. I believe the snug fit re-energized his ailing heart."

  "I cannot possibly wear men's trousers!" Lillian said, aghast.

  "Why ever not? You did all the time as a girl. There are several pairs in your chest that I kept for you. And speaking of fashion sense..."

  "Which we were most definitely not..."

  "Quite so. But tell me, whatever happened to yours? That gray bombazine borders on the dowdy."

  "I don't follow current trends."

  "Why ever not? I certainly wore stylish clothes when I was your age! Even when I was twice your age."

  "I am a teacher..."

  "So?"

  "The so is that students have certain expectations of their teachers. A staid manner of dressing is one of them."

  "Oh, balls!"

  "Nana!"

  "Twenty-eight is still young! It's about time you stopped acting as though you were middle-aged and started acting your real age. And lands sake, missy! You teach color design! Well, I say, add some color to your wardrobe or I shall be driven to a fit of melancholy just looking at you."

  Lillian winced. At times, her grandmother's astute observations stung. However, she would never admit to the woman who raised her that her teaching position was only an excuse for cornering the market on dowdy; in reality, frumpy was her disguise. She had done such a good job of it too that she hardly recognized herself when she looked in the mirror these days. And that was not necessarily a bad thing.

  With a sigh, Lillian let it all go. She was already saying too much, revealing too much ... thinking entirely too much. There was no reason for her grandmother to know that these days she lived her life quietly, correctly, never doing or saying or dressing in any way that might bring unwanted scrutiny in her direction. Lillian Hill never rocked the boat, never called notice to herself, was never, ever, provocative. Fading into the shadows was the only way she knew to keep her past a secret.

  "Lillian?" her grandmother questioned. "Where have you gone, young lady? Someplace nice, I hope?"

  "Not nearly as nice as here."

  To get all that well-meaning, grandmotherly attention off her and onto something else, Lillian pointed to some clay pots "Those are lovely plants."

  "Doyle brought them by."

  "Oh?" Lillian asked in a show of feigned indifference.

  "He asks after you all the time. I imagine the reason I see him as often as I do is because I tell him news of you."

  "We bumped into each other on the front path," Lillian finally disclosed.

  Victoria exclaimed more heatedly than convincingly, "It was purely accidental that Doyle was still here upon your arrival! I get so lonely for conversation, and Doyle is a receptive audience. He always listens without complaint to an old lady's grumblings about cabbage moths and such. I thought he would be long gone by the time you arrived."

  "Oh? Really..."

  "Very well! I admit it: I cleaved unto him like snow in January, and I did so intentionally, in hopes that he would be here when you arrived. There! I have confessed to interfering in your life. Now are you satisfied?"

  Lillian's reply was a glib: "Thought so."

  Victoria glimmered at her. "You wicked girl! You dragged that confession out of me and you know it! And now, I suppose, you will make me beg to find out how your meeting went."

  "Begging is not necessary. Actually, the meeting went as expected. I was prepared." Doyle's eyes! They had jolted her. How to prepare for the jolt of an earthquake? "Nothing dramatic happened." The slight brush of his arm had set off a fission of fire inside her. "Boring, actually." Her too-sensitive breasts had tingled excitedly. "Doyle was polite and I was polite. End of story. Now let's change the subject. Please? Tell me about your gardens."

  Victoria's footsteps slowed, then stopped. "Funny you should ask. I have been mulling over this idea in my head for days. I know it's sentimental, but I don't care. I would like you to start a perennial garden right here on this spot for me. Not just any garden: a real keepsake. When you return to Boston, I shall look out my back window and think of you, watch the garden grow just as I watched you grow as a little girl. Please dear? It would mean so much."

  "Your sweet little-old-lady look is wasted on me, Grandmother. I think a Memory Garden is a lovely idea. Do you have any suggestions for the design?"

  "Austere simplicity, I should think. Ask Doyle," Victoria said with a breezy toss of her head. "He will know which landscape features will best suit the line of this house. The man is an architectural genius."

  She meant well, but Lillian could almost hear the machinations of her grandmother's brain concocting this scheme. "Please don't push so!"

  "I am not pushing," Victoria protested in her best-aggrieved tone. "The Memory Garden will simply provide an opportunity for you to talk to Doyle. Really talk to him. And not solely about how buildings and landscape should compliment one another, either; about the past too."

  "Oh, come here, you," Lillian cried, pulling her grandmother close. "You win. I shall go see Doyle."

  "Good! Doyle meant so much to you when you were a girl. What came after, well, I shall leave you to discuss that with him."

  When the back screen slammed, Lillian looked up. "Tony!"

  "Obviously, waiting to see you proved too much," her grandmother confided.

/>   Lillian rushed to the ailing artist, arms out-stretched. "Tony, you look wonderful!" she exclaimed ignoring his frailty. "Grandmama must be making you happy!"

  Tony enthusiastically kissed Lillian's proffered cheek. "Your grandmother has been making me happy for many years. I would do anything for that woman. But how are you? Did you have any problem getting away from your teaching position?"

  She rolled her eyes. "My students at the Normal Art School won't even miss me."

  "Young lady, never forget that you are a trailblazer! As one of the first wave of female graduates from the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston you have a responsibility to the women who follow after you, not only to teach, but to paint seriously!"

  "I paint. A little. For my own pleasure. Every now and again," she said evasively.

  "You must show your work. That is an artist's obligation!"

  In many respects, Tony sounded just like her grandmother. Not exactly disappointed in her, but not exactly thrilled about the direction her life had taken either. Both her grandmother and Tony were so eager for her to be happy! For their sakes, she would put on the best act of her life.

  Holding her at arm's length, Tony surveyed her with an artist's critical eye, free of sentimentality in his pursuit of the truth. "Now that you are home we must fatten you up; you are naught but skin and bone! The cuisine of my native Italy is the best medicine in the world. Put on a little weight and you might have enough energy to paint seriously again."

  Her grandmother gave an inelegant snort. "Anthony, you think all women should be as fleshy as your life models."

  "Not all women," Tony responded with a diluted version of his former leer. "For instance, I have always believed that you, Victoria, are just right."

  Her grandmother chortled and elbowed him ... but ever so gently.

  Tony and her grandmother were still as passionate as ever. How did they do it?

  After beaming at his long-time flame, her former teacher returned his sights to her. "Lillian, I am here to remind you of your portrait."

  She groaned. A certain amount of reluctance was expected of her. Her relationship with Tony was built upon mutual respect and affection ... and a great deal of teasing. That was the way their relationship would continue, regardless of the artist's recent debility. "You still intend to paint Grandmama and me?" Another groan here, louder this time.

  Tony beamed his enjoyment of the good-natured sparring. "It won't be so very terrible," he cajoled. "My preliminary sketches of your grandmother are finished, so there will be just the two of us in the studio. I promise not to take up too much of your time. And if nothing else, it will give us chance to talk."

  "You mean, I listen while you meddle," Lillian grumbled, because grumbling was expected of her.

  "Exactly." He grinned hugely. "I was hoping this portrait would be the impetus you need to start painting again. Seriously. You have the potential to be a fine artist. Just like your father."

  When Lillian averted her gaze to mask her tears--she was deeply moved by the compliment--Victoria wagged her finger at her long-time companion. "You will get plenty of time to set this girl straight now that she is home. No more persuasion for now."

  Victoria looked over at granddaughter and winked. "We shall get out of your hair now, child. Will you be all right alone?"

  "Of course," Lillian replied.

  She restrained her shiver until the lovers had turned away.

  * * * *

  Lillian worked in the gardens until dark. Then, removing her muddy boots by the granite steps, she went back inside the house. Spine straight, she climbed the steep staircase to her second-floor bedchamber.

  The wide pine risers had slanted with age, and they creaked--unless, of course, one stepped on exactly the right spot on the tread, which she always did. There was no special talent involved in the careful placement of her feet; the right spot was readily apparent from the worn vanish on the mellow wood. It had always awed her that generations of Hills had walked these same halls, climbed these same stairs, their feet following the same precise journey as hers.

  The golden haze of nostalgia carried her as far as the scratched floor outside her bedchamber door, but no further. Trembling, she turned the knob, stepped over the raised threshold ... and descended straight into the fiery flames of hell.

  As if on cue, the devil himself, in the guise of Frank Johnson, rose to the surface of her consciousness. The image was so vividly demonic, Lillian checked her hands to reassure herself that his blood no longer coated her fingertips.

  Death had been instigated in this room--a viciously cruel death for a viciously cruel man. She still felt the icy presence of evil within these four walls.

  Lillian covered her eyes to block out the terrifying images, but the visual fragments, branded irrevocably in her mind, continued their destructive march. Torrents of rain on a moonless night. Pale flower petals stained crimson. Phantom malodorous fumes that choked her lungs. A body lying dead on the rocky beach under her bedchamber window. And always, always, the face of a man coming back for her too late, forever too late.

  There was no place to hide. No place to run. Panicking because of her breathlessness, gagging against the caustic chemical stench, Lillian groped her way across the uneven pine floor to the high-topped bed, her throat closing tight. She was suffocating!

  Clutching the bedpost for support, fighting to draw each and every gasp of air into her burning lungs, the olfactory memory of that gruesome night continued to assail her.

  Surprisingly, this episode didn't bring with it the mind-dulling blackouts she had come to expect. After a time, Frank's memory simply disintegrated. In his place, amidst the chaotic tangle of her memories, was Doyle. Before the hurt. Before the bitterness. Before events beyond their control tore them apart. She saw Doyle as she had first known him.

  When they met that first time in Tony's studio, she had been seventeen years old to Doyle's twenty-nine. Only seventeen, but very sure of herself, indeed. Lillian wished she were half as sure of herself now.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks, quickly wiped away at the sound of a knock on the door.

  "Goodnight, dear," her grandmother whispered, poking her gray head just inside the room. "Lillian! Did you hear me? I have been trying to tell you..."

  Lillian kept her back turned so her wet face wouldn't show. "Yes. Goodnight! Sleep tight. Watch out for the bedbugs!" she called gaily.

  "Child, are you all right?"

  "Absolutely fine. See you in the morning, Nana."

  As soon as the door closed, Lillian began to pace. Big circles. Smaller circles. Finally, she rocked in place.

  She had lied to her grandmother. Again. She wasn't fine. Hadn't been fine in years. Ten years to be exact.

  Lillian dug into her pocket. Tearing open the envelope she had placed there hours earlier, she examined the newsprint message carefully cut and pasted onto the expensive stationary:

  YOU WILL REGRET YOU EVER RETURNED

  After placing the succinct warning back inside its envelope, Lily hid her secret away under some silk scarves in the oak armoire.

  Her grandmother must never learn about the letters, mustn't know her granddaughter had stayed away from the cottage all these years because she had feared coming home.

  Lillian slammed the drawer shut.

  The mirror over the dresser shook with the force of her decision. She had no choice but to gaze at her reflection in the glass as she steadied the gilded frame.

  Charles liked to call her polished and sophisticated; it suited him to think of her that way. Today, Doyle had reluctantly called her beautiful; it had not suited him to tell her so. Objectively speaking, if one could ever truly be objective about oneself, she supposed her face had the right composition of cheekbones and hollows and shadows to be pleasing. She did know that as a young woman her features had always attracted attention. Male attention. Unwanted, unasked for, male attention.

  For her part, she knew the white skin, the
exotic green eyes, and the burnished red hair were fairly meaningless commodities. They meant nothing to her. Less than nothing. Gladdened she looked like her grandmother, but other than that, she had never truly cared about her appearance. After all, her appearance was beyond her control; she'd had nothing to do with it, hadn't earned the compliments. She had fallen into her face at birth, as it were, the same way she had fallen into her shoe size and her name...

  Lillian sighed. She was twenty-eight years old. She had lived through scandal and heartbreak and worse. She had lived in a strange and distant city, alone. Despite all that, and probably because she was frozen in her eighteenth year, her face was a boring blank canvas. The subtle nuances of character that made two eyes, a nose, and a mouth interesting and unique were missing. She was so rehearsed, so outwardly composed at all times, that her own personality had retreated into the woodwork.

  Now Doyle, there was a man who never bothered to hide his passions. Anger, sadness, happiness ... love. At one time or another, she had witnessed all those emotions play across his features. But today, when Doyle faced her amongst the fragrant herbs, he had looked at her like he had never looked at her before--as though he had never seen her before--and his expression had held nothing but contempt.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Doyle was shirtless and sweating, every muscle in his broad back moving in rhythmic sync.

  Fascinated, Lillian observed him silently from her concealed vantage point.

  She chuckled to herself. Of all the deviant practices laid at her head, she had escaped the tag of voyeurism. But hugging the barn door--too afraid to enter, too mesmerized to leave--she did indeed watch Doyle voyeuristically as he lifted bale after bale of salt marsh hay onto the tines of his pitchfork, and with the ease of long practice, gracefully toss them across the width of the open space.

  She should clear her throat. Shuffle her feet. Make some sound, any sound, to give her presence away. But no, she might have been a statue for all the noise she made. Enthralled with his power, his strength, his undeniable masculinity, she stood there and gaped at his male beauty.