The Edge of Recall

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “So, anyway, I have a proposition I think you’ll find intriguing.”

  She laid her arm across her forehead. “I’ll just bet you do.”

  Smith leaned back in the squeaky desk chair and crossed his feet. Tessa sounded touchier than ever. The last thing he wanted was to irritate her, but was it humanly possible to avoid that? She would expect a complete explanation, and yet he couldn’t violate the non-disclosure agreement.

  She’d told him once that she loved lines, lines connecting one point to another—straight, curved, angled, as long as they served the purpose of continuity. She even liked lines at the store to keep people from trampling one another, lines into a movie on opening night to assure seating in the proper order.

  He’d laughed, but she liked knowing one thing logically led to another. She didn’t like surprises, just wanted to know which direction the line went and what connection it had to her. So straight to the end, without details? Best perhaps. “I want you to come to Maryland.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m assembling a design team for a project that has something that will interest you greatly.” That was as straight as he could put it. “I promise you won’t be disappointed, Tessa, if you come and see for yourself.”

  “What makes you think that’s possible? I have a very full schedule.”

  “I spoke with your secretary—”

  “My assistant.”

  “Right. She said that you’d finished up a major landscape and had some downtime.”

  “I use downtime for design and research. I contribute to several publications and can’t take off on a whim.”

  “Whim?” Smith ran a hand through his hair. “This is a serious offer. And you’re so close, just a short trip north.”

  “How do you know where I am?”

  “Again your sec—assistant, I’m afraid.”

  She sighed. “I haven’t been home in two months. You can’t call me up after six years and expect me to drop everything.”

  Smith looked at the contract he had laid out and ready. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  “Oh no. You could never disappoint me.”

  Smith took the phone from his ear and stared, then replaced it. “Have I . . . missed something insulting in this offer?”

  “Yes. It’s insulting to think I’d run up there simply because you read about me in a magazine and think you can capitalize on it.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “It’s not becau—”

  “I suppose I’m flattered you now find my work useful to your project, but I actually remember you laughing with your friends. So no, I’m not really interested in working with you.” The connection ended.

  Smith stared at his phone. Laughing with his friends? Well, he had been angry and disappointed when she’d switched majors and gone a direction he’d seen no future in. He had felt compelled to dissuade her after all his mentoring. But that was ancient history. They had the chance now to combine their talents, yet she’d refused. Without even hearing him out.

  She hadn’t changed at all. Still an eggshell, cracking at every slight, imagining affronts where no affronts were intended. He hit his palm on his thigh. He had to get her on board. Aside from the fact that he truly did like and respect her, she was the perfect person for the project. Not because he meant to capitalize on her reputation—though he had yet to catch the notice she had—but because only Tessa could properly appreciate and take charge of what he’d found.

  “Well?” Bair came into the office. “Got the labyrinth specialist?”

  “Almost. We’re talking again tomorrow.” If she’d even take his call.

  Gripping her shoulders with her hands, she presses into the thorny foliage, trying to be small, invisible. Lightning splits the sky. Thunder cracks. She runs. Needles slide beneath her feet. She falls, sinking, sliding. Her mouth forms a silent scream as she hears him coming. . . .

  Tessa shot up, gasping in the darkness, her heart pounding the pulse in her neck. She held her face between her clammy hands, then, needing to see, fumbled for the lamp switch and searched the corners of the hotel room. Nothing lurking. She threw the comforter off and swung her feet to the solid, dry floor. She was safe.

  She drew a deep breath to still the terror and dragged her briefcase onto the bed. She knew the drill. Doing something productive, something creative would take her mind off the dream. Don’t search it for meaning. Get outside the emotions and stay there. She opened the briefcase. Her cell phone slipped out and lay on the comforter. Heart still pounding, she picked it up, tempted to call Dr. Brenner, who would talk her through this nightmare as he had so many others. No.

  She had not disturbed him in the middle of the night for more than four years. Doing so now would indicate a deeper dependence than there was. Besides, if she called, what would she say, that Smith had caused a nightmare, reopened a wound? Dr. Brenner would tell her she was not a little girl anymore, that some monsters could be faced.

  She could hear his placid voice as though he sat across the room from her. She couldn’t confront her missing father or her dead mother for answers or explanations. But Smith’s offer presented a chance to face someone who had hurt her. It might give her a way to make peace with the abandonment that drained her energy, her optimism, her faith.

  Her stomach churned at the thought of confrontation, of holding someone accountable for wounding her. She had broken a cold sweat after disconnecting from Smith, after saying what had sprung to her lips before she could stop it. How could she face him now? But if she didn’t, she’d be the coward who’d had the chance and couldn’t take it.

  Hand shaking, she picked up the phone, leaned against the headboard, and punched the number. Her heart beat more wildly than in her dream. This shouldn’t be so hard.

  “Yes? Hello?” Smith’s voice was thick and sluggish.

  Her watch read just past two. She might have checked that first, but it was too late now. “Smith?”

  “Tessa.” He cleared his throat. “Is something wrong?”

  She forced her voice through her swollen throat. “I need directions.”

  After hanging up, Smith consulted the time. Tessa had needed directions at two in the morning? He hoped that wasn’t a harbinger of things to come.

  “A’right?” Bair mumbled from the opposite bunk in the narrow trailer.

  “I’ve snagged our landscape architect.”

  Bair’s springs squeaked as he repositioned. “In the middle of the night?”

  “Quite.”

  As Bair slipped back to sleep, Smith calculated the chances of not offending Tessa before he had her signature on a contract. Low probability and lower chance of quick resolution when it occurred. But the property owner, Rumer Gaston, had been impressed by the article in Architectural Digest. He wanted her on board.

  And Smith did too. At least he thought he did. He sighed. Tomorrow was soon enough to face Tessa Young.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Smith had not directed her to his office, as she would have expected. He was on-site already and wanted to meet there. His directions were clear, but the purpose vague. He had said only that he would explain when she got there.

  Her chest quaked as she drove past pleasant marinas lined with sail and fishing boats, with gulls winging overhead and standing like pegs on the low wooden docks that stretched into the brackish water of bay and river joinings. She entered green leafy forests broken by brown fields of feed corn, low fields of soybeans and potatoes, then more forests with the occasional white-tailed deer peering out timidly.

  Maybe she should have called Dr. Brenner. He would have helped her process the decision, but she was between appointments and didn’t want to need more—didn’t need more. It was only the imminence of seeing Smith that made her think it. Smith with his aristocratic confidence, his compelling personality and contagious smile.

  She gripped the steering wheel and reminded herself this was her decision. Smith had made the offer, but she�
��d chosen to check it out. A professional reconnaissance and the chance for personal resolution. Both of them positive reasons to reenter his sphere. She could control her thoughts and emotions and would not be swept anywhere she did not intend to go.

  She did wonder if he would look the same. She hadn’t changed much—except in ways that would keep her from imagining in him what she hoped to find in everyone and never did. She had learned a lot since those days at Cornell when Smith’s had been the strong hand guiding her through.

  She’d appreciated his mentoring, but that didn’t mean she had to become his clone. She had her own dreams and plans and realities. Why couldn’t he understand that? Because Smith wanted what Smith wanted—and usually got.

  His dynamic and friendly personality earned him his popularity. Who wouldn’t like Smith Chandler? Who wouldn’t want him near, imagine him caring, trust him and—

  She stopped herself with a forceful recognition of reality. That was who she’d thought he was. He’d proved otherwise.

  She arrived at a turnoff blocked by a gate marked No Trespassing. Very inviting. She parked and got out, but didn’t see another car. If this was it, the least he could have done was be there to meet her. “Well . . .” She expelled a breath.

  “Deep subject.”

  She spun, heart racing. He stepped out of the trees, tall and sinewy. His sandy hair, cropped short, was still bedeviled by the little cowlick in front where it swirled out. He peered at her through wire-rim glasses, his serious demeanor disguising a relentless wit and cunning humor.

  Closure, she breathed. “So I’m here.”

  “So you are.” Smith formed a wry smile as he approached the car.

  Her ponytail holder had slipped loose, and she pulled it out and shook her silky, golden brown hair, pulling it back again with a motion he remembered so well, her hair always resisting whatever restraint she imposed.

  “How was the drive?”

  “Fine.” She looked up with wide green eyes, a light sprinkling of freckles making her seem younger than she was. Or maybe it was the wary expression.

  She smelled like fresh peaches, and he glimpsed the tube of lotion on the dash. She’d always gone for fruity scents in lotion and shampoo in place of more complicated perfumes. It was the one less complicated thing about her.

  Her lightweight cargo pants and navy blue top flattered her figure. She had been willowy, hardly substantial, but now her muscles were toned, skin tanned; fit, yet feminine. She looked . . . really good. Pity she was so high maintenance, the sort of woman who required a manual, and signal lights to warn of impending detonation with no apparent cause.

  He hadn’t been happy with the way they’d fallen out but had cut his losses and moved on. Tessa, he recalled, tended to tote her injuries along. There’d been a very thin line between teasing and offending her. While he’d specialized in witty barbs, she had needed initiating into that sort of repartee. She didn’t seem eager to be initiated into anything at the moment. But she would.

  He unlocked the gate erected earlier that week for privacy and swung it wide. “May I ride with you?”

  “Where?” The prospect seemingly unnerved her.

  “About a hundred yards down, there’s a trailer in the trees. We’ll just step into the office before I show you the site.”

  She opened the car door, popped the locks, and he slipped into the seat beside her. It hadn’t been asking that much. Why did she look like she’d rather jump out than jostle over the ruts in the field to the trailer.

  “There’s something here you’ll want to see firsthand, but the owner insists that no one gain access without a non-disclosure agreement. Just a promise not to tell what we’re doing here.”

  She turned off the engine. “Is it illegal?”

  “Of course not.” What kind of question was that? “But unless you’ve agreed not to reveal anything I show or tell you, I can’t take you out there. Not even for a look-see.”

  Instead of the eagerness he’d hoped for, he saw frustration. “You had me drive up here—”

  “You won’t regret it.”

  “You said nothing about non-disclosures and secret projects. I can’t imagine what something like that has to do with me.”

  “My clients value their privacy. That’s all.” Smith swung the door open and climbed out. “Look, Tessa, do you want to see it or don’t you?”

  She sighed. “I came to have a look, and if I have to sign something to do that, let’s do it.”

  “Good.” They weren’t his rules, but he’d enforce what Gaston demanded. Even though their work would not be featured in any journal, the contacts they would make among a high echelon of potential clients was worth more than publicity. If that didn’t matter to her, there was one thing that would. He’d threatened Bair with bludgeoning if he so much as mentioned that element.

  They went inside, and Bair jumped up from his desk, scattering pencils, papers, and a stapler. Bair had known he’d be bringing in a specialist, but had not expected Tessa. Smith rather enjoyed Bair’s reaction.

  “Bair, this is Tessa Young, the landscape architect.”

  “Oh, uh, Tessa.” He pumped her hand. “It’s my pleasure.”

  Bair was a better show with a lovely woman than on a rugby pitch—and he’d been an infamous crowd-pleaser out there. He’d had his nose broken three times in brawls, and his brawny arms hung like slabs of beef.

  Tessa raised her brows. “Bear?”

  “Nigel Bair. With an a and an i. Not the kind that climbs trees.”

  Smith grinned. “The kind that clobbers opponents on the rugby pitch.”

  “Never without provocation.” Bair hid his scarred knuckles behind his back.

  “Bair’s in the final throes of internship and will come aboard my firm at this project’s completion.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Nigel.” Tessa’s tone had warmed considerably.

  Bair’s freckled face flushed red. “Uh . . . Bair, please. No one calls me Nigel and lives to tell it.”

  Tessa laughed for the first time since arriving. “Okay, then. Bair.”

  Watching her loosen up as she hadn’t before oddly annoyed him. Smith raised his chin. “The non-disclosure?”

  “Yes, of course.” Bair scattered more papers in his attempt to find it swiftly. “I’m chuffed you’ll be working with us, Tessa.”

  “That’s not decided yet.” Smith caught sight of the form and pulled it out from beneath a folder. If she guessed how confidently he’d played her card with Bair, she’d refuse on principle. “Here you are.”

  She took the chair across from the desk. “Mind if I read it?”

  “She’ll want to see the contract as well, Bair. Try not to cause a landslide.”

  “Oh, I have that here.” He took it from a file drawer behind him. “Your secretary gave me your fees, and Smith attached some bonusing as well.”

  She didn’t correct his term for her assistant, merely took the form and looked it over. “Generous.”

  “Our client wants the best.” Smith smiled. He wasn’t laying it on; those were Gaston’s words. Hopefully he hadn’t talked Tessa up too much, in case she turned down the project. He didn’t see that happening, though, not once she knew. If she could change the whole course of her life over the things, finding a real one had to be worth her time.

  Tessa was not sure what to make of all the secrecy and hype, but the money being offered on the contract suggested Smith had not exaggerated. She signed the non-disclosure in order to learn more, but not the contract, not until she knew what he was up to.

  “I left my Rover at the site,” he said when they stepped outside. “I hope you don’t mind walking in. We haven’t cut a road yet, and the terrain would be rough on your sedan.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been driving all morning—which, by the way, you owe me for. Extending my rental and gas.”

  “Expense it with Bair. He’s handling the finances.”

  For some reason, that seemed fu
nny. Bair’s playing rugby— wholeheartedly, by the looks of his knuckles and physique—and crunching numbers. Prior to introductions, she would have thought him a construction foreman, but not all architects so completely looked the part as Smith.

  “How do you know him?” In the interplay she’d seen, there seemed more than just a professional association between them.

  “He was a couple years ahead, growing up in London. We’d chummed around, then lost touch for a while. After a few wasted years, he followed my lead into American architectural education, with the promise of a position in my firm.”

  “He seems nice.”

  “Don’t let his bumbling boyishness fool you. Inside he’s a . . . bear.”

  A bear who would provide a buffer between her and Smith. The breeze tossed strands of her hair and eased the muggy heat as they left the trees and entered a fallow field. Out of nowhere, a sense of foreboding caught her in the back of the throat. She slowed her steps.

  Mistaking her hesitation, Smith said, “I should have driven up, but I heard your car and cut through to meet you.”

  “To sneak up on me.”

  He cocked his head. “You didn’t provide much entertainment. Not even a proper startle.”

  After years of suppressing irrational fears, she had easily hidden the jolt he’d given her. “I don’t have time for games.”

  “Ah yes, your busy schedule.” He said the word without a c—as he’d used to in order to annoy her.

  “Yes, my schedule, my plans, all of which you’ve interrupted.”

  “You’re going to thank me.”

  “Hmm.” If he thought they could pick up their old camaraderie, he’d be disappointed. She might be made a fool of once, but she absolutely always learned from her mistakes—especially those she had therapeutically discussed in more sessions than they deserved.

  As they exited the woods and entered the meadow, he said, “We’re standing on the grounds of the St. John chapel and monastery.”