The Unquiet

by J. D. Robb; Mary Blayney

  Finished, she lingered in the doorway and turned out the bathroom light, though the lamp on the bedside table still shed plenty to reveal him lying on his side in her bed, head propped on one hand as he grinned and patted the bed next to him with the other.

  Raising one deadly brow in jest and pointing an admonishing index finger at him, she reiterated in a mostly serious fashion, “ All right?”

  “ All right. All right.” He chuckled when he leaned back and stretched out his arm to turn out the lamp as she got to the bed. “I don’t want my kid brother lurking around in your head the first time we make love any more than you do, so let’s make this work. I’m getting jumpy.”

  “Jumpy, huh.” She got into bed next to him—even though she was lying stiff as a board along the very edge of her side of the bed, she was aware of every breath he took. His long arms and legs took up a lot of room. It was a king-sized bed, and she felt like he was all over it. She could feel his body heat a foot away . . . and was a little jumpy herself.

  “Mm, jumpy. Under my skin. All pins and needles like my body’s been asleep for the past ten years. Tingly, you know? Jumpy.” Yes! She got it. She knew. “And whether you’re lying eighteen inches away or not it doesn’t change anything. I feel this way just knowing you’re in the neighborhood . . . in the northern hemisphere . . . on the planet, actually.” The sheets rustled and pitched when he turned toward her. “So don’t you think it’d be easier for Oliver if we were closer together?”

  She rolled her head to face him—the shadow of his shoulders and torso loomed like a sloping mountain range. “How much closer?”

  “Oh, say, share-a-pillow close.” Those were the words he used but the low, rich rumble of his voice made it sound like in-my-arms, smell-your-hair, kiss-your-neck close.

  “ Anything to make it easier on Oliver.” Sportingly, she began to scoot to the center of the bed, and next thing she knew, he had her tucked against his body—her back to his chest—one arm under the pillow supporting her head, the other wrapped tight around her middle. “Ah . . . are you . . . are you really, really, really happy to see me or did you bring a missile to bed?”

  “A what?”

  “A metal pipe maybe?”

  After a bit of thrashing about, he started to laugh. “You’re going to be so disappointed.” A blinding beam of light shone on the far wall when he flipped on the flashlight that he’d retrieved near her ankles. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m faint with relief.”

  They laughed and settled in again; any tension they felt was dispelled and replaced with an intimate sense of sharing a common purpose. They took comfort in the other’s presence. Ivy grew warm and effortlessly relaxed in Craig’s arms.

  She sat on the ornate bench overlooking the cliffs, waiting, spinning a daisy stem between her thumb and index finger. To pass the time she started plucking petals, slow and deliberate, one at a time, kissing the loves me and eating the nots.

  She ate a rose the same way.

  And just as a cluster of lilacs appeared on her lap, Craig—clutching a fistful of tulips—asked what the hell was she doing?

  “Petal roulette, of course.”

  “Oh.” Like that made perfect sense to him. “Try these.”

  His hand was empty when he held it out to her, but she was just as happy taking it as any flower he might offer. “What took you so long? I could have eaten a whole garden by now.”

  “I waited to make sure you fell asleep. I didn’t want to come alone.” They walked hand in hand between the trees. “I don’t want to be alone. Ever again.”

  “Okay.” She wrote that down in a memo pad.

  They came upon the gazebo in the niche in the woods—faded, chipped, and unoccupied. Craig crumbled like a fragile house of cards. “It didn’t work. He isn’t here.”

  “Sure it worked. We’re here. Together.” She pulled him toward the canopy. “He’s here somewhere.”

  They looked everywhere, leaping from one side of the clearing to the other, bouncing off trees like ninja warriors, until Ivy arrived cliffside to peer over the edge. She was reluctant at first—afraid of what she might see, knowing now how Oliver had taken his own life. But she was quick to squash her qualms—better she looked than Craig.

  “Don’t,” he said from behind her. She could feel him, unsteady and fearful, all around her in a tight embrace. “Stand back. Stay away from the edge. I can’t lose you, too.”

  Smiling, she turned in his arms and wrapped her arms around him. With her head on his chest she listened to the rapid tattoo of his heartbeat and felt the heavy heaving of his chest as he fought his terror. “You won’t lose me. I promise. Try to remember we’re dreaming. We’re here together. We’re safe and—”

  Yo ho ho! echoed in the wind. Ahoy, me maties. Arrrg. Thrilled, they both threw wide their arms as if to burst into song.

  “Oliver!”

  “He’s a pirate?”

  “No, he’s a jerk,” she said, marching to the rim to take a look. Craig couldn’t make himself get closer or he, too, would have seen a near-grown man bobbing erratically on the waves in a wooden rubba-dub tub. “You know, if you were my brother, I’d push you off this cliff myself. Who do you think you are? Do you have any idea what you’ve put him through?”

  You gotta love her.

  She spun around to see the brothers picnicking on a black plaid blanket in the shade of the trees.

  “I do.” Craig patted the blanket next to him, and she was suddenly seated next to him—frowning malevolently at Oliver. “So maybe we should talk about what you’ve been putting her through. Apologize maybe?”

  I tried to tell you, bro. I wanted to keep it between the two of us but you wouldn’t listen to me. I couldn’t get through all the guilt and anger and . . . His expression changed to a humble gracelessness that Ivy found extremely endearing. And the pain, the sorrow. Thanks for that, man. Thanks for missing me.

  “Oliver.” He became urgent, finally taking in who he was talking to—and how. It was an opportunity not likely to present itself again. “I love you. You’re my brother. I’ll always miss you. I’ll always be sorry I wasn’t there for you that night. I failed you. I’m sorry I—ooph.”

  Oliver knocked him over, sat on his chest, and closed his mouth with his hand . . . and not too far away Ivy plucked a wildflower from the grass and popped it in her mouth—the taste was bright yellow.

  No more sorrys! You got it? Don’t you see that you saved me? You gave me a reason to live, man. You gave me hope. He lost a little steam. I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m not, he said after a brief search of his soul. But I should be. I was so pissed off at everyone all the time. I let my anger rule my life for so long . . . I did a lot of stupid shit. I guess I can’t blame you for just assuming I jumped. Which I didn’t. But even if I had, it wouldn’t have been your fault. You did your best for me. You know you did. You were great, in fact. Those last couple of years with you, they were the best, man. I was happy. But more important, remember that I have a will of my own. He paused to display their surroundings with the palm of his hand. I haven’t always been able to do stuff like this, but I always made my own choices. My life was mine. I was the decider, not you. It’s lame, man, and pretty damn conceited to think you had that much control over me.

  With no effort at all, Craig reached up and peeled his brother’s hand from his mouth—not that he needed it to state, “You didn’t jump.”

  No. He looked over at Ivy. He rolled off his brother and leaned back in the grass on his elbows. Which the flower-eating dragon lady could have told you weeks ago if she was any good at interpreting dreams. I couldn’t have made it any plainer for her.

  “ ‘It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents,’ ” she quoted Sir Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton, First Baron of Lytton, with great élan around a mouthful of highly addictive buttercups. “ ‘—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the’ .
. . well, up the cliff in this case. And down the hillside and through the trees. It was terrible. And the lightning and the noise . . .”

  What happens?

  “I slip in the mud and fall.” Her eyes lifted to Oliver’s steady gray-blue gaze. “You slip. You fall.” Her mind flashed on the few quick glimpses she’d caught of his last moments, the panic and horror; the desperate screaming desire to save himself, to live . . . the raw realization and acceptance . . . Tears rivered down her cheeks. “Oh, Oliver.”

  Aw, gawd.

  Dashing the back of his hand over one eye, Craig wrapped his other arm around her and gave a reassuring hug. “Girls, huh? Remember how Mom could laugh so hard she cried?”

  I remember everything now.

  “Yeah? Including what I said about you taking my Chevelle out?”

  I was about to die, man.

  “Now that I know you didn’t know that . . .”

  Ivy chuckled and cheered as Craig chased Oliver around and through the old gazebo in a brotherly ritual they’d performed a hundred times or more—laughing, stumbling, shouting grisly threats. This time, however, when the younger was caught, there was no noogie or dangling spit over his face. Craig clutched him in his arms, shook him, held him a few moments more, kissed his cheek, held him, and finally whispered something in his ear before reluctantly letting him go.

  They stared at each other long and hard, saying things with their eyes that no words had been made for . . . until Ivy sniffed back her tears and broke the silence. She intended to call Jay first thing in the morning. Craig smiled and started toward her—Oliver beat him to her side.

  Ask.

  “Why me?”

  I tried everyone in his near future and you were the only one who let me in.

  “His near future?”

  The Rossinis will be planning a Glad to Be Back party in the fall. Your mother would have brought you. I just rushed things along.

  “So you can just pop in and out of my head . . . whenever ?”

  Nah. I’ve done what I needed to do. I’m leaving and I’ll close the door on my way out.

  “The door?”

  Whatever it was that made you susceptible to me—I don’t know, being unsuspecting, being creative and imaginative . . . open-minded? Maybe it was just destiny. But whatever it was, it isn’t there anymore. You’ll be wary now, and that closes doors on all sorts of possibilities. He nudged her gently with his elbow. Lighten up. It’s okay. In this case it’s a good thing. I’m pretty sure my brother doesn’t want his wife running around talking to dead people. Not to mention how horrible you are at it.

  “Bite me.” Irrespective of her words, they grinned fondly at each other.

  Thanks, Ivy.

  It wasn’t like she’d had a choice, but she nodded her acknowledgment anyway. But as he turned to leave her, she stopped him.

  “Wait a second.” She stood, looked around for Craig, who was nowhere in sight, but still sidled up close before she spoke again. “You said ‘wife.’ Is that, you know, your idea or his? I mean, we were going to meet at the Rossinis’ party anyway, right? How am I supposed to know if this is real love or if it’s just, like, residual emotion from sharing this . . . Well, what is it? A haunt? A possession? How will I know?”

  His grin was knowing and amiably evil. Don’t you need to have a little faith about things like that? You know, take a leap and all that?

  “Not if you know someone with surefire answers. So, how will I know?”

  This feels like giving you the answers to the final exam but I guess I owe you a hint at least.

  “ At the very least.”

  He came closer and closer, clearly intent on whispering the answer in her ear, so close she closed her eyes to focus her hearing.

  It’s . . .

  Her eyes popped open, her gaze darted. Ceiling, open bathroom door, plump, peach-colored comforter, big male body, Craig watching her wake up . . . She growled and battered the bedding until she came to a sitting position. “I hate your brother! If I ever get my hands on—” She glared at Craig. “What’s so funny?”

  He slipped his hands under his head and gave her the same knowing, amiably evil grin she’d seen in her dream. She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “Did you hear the answer? Did you hear him?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” He wasn’t her brother, but she knew what to do with a male who thought he had a secret—possibly the most important secret of her life. “Maybe?” She was on her knees and had him by the ribs before he could blink. “Maybe?” With his legs still trapped beneath the sheets she took full advantage—straddling his waist and grabbing his arms when he freed his hands from behind his head. “Maybe?” She pinned one forearm under her knee and held the other over his head leaving one entire set of ribs exposed to her. She never learned how to spell mercy. “Maybe?”

  “Yes! Yes. All right. I heard.”

  “And you’ll tell me?”

  “Yes! Yes, I promise.” She stopped but she didn’t let up. Not that it mattered. With barely any effort at all—certainly a great deal less than poor Jay had had to muster during most of his formative years—he flipped her onto her back and under his body between heartbeats, clamping both wrists in one hand on the pillow and using the other to tenderly rearrange stray wisps of hair around her face. “However, first you have to tell me what you asked him.”

  She groaned her disinclination.

  “Come on. Have a little faith. Leap. I won’t let you down.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “That’s what he said. You heard my question, too.”

  “I didn’t. I swear.”

  She could see in his eyes that he wasn’t lying. But she didn’t need to see or hear or taste or touch him to know that he not only knew the answer, he was the answer. She didn’t need to ask anymore, but she was curious. “I asked him how we’d know if what we’re feeling is real love.”

  He laughed softly and repeated Oliver’s words. “It’s in the kiss.”

  And it was . . . dreamy.