by Nora Roberts
And when he’d run out, when his breath was heaving and his fists clenched, she spoke calmly. “This is your life now, Sam. Look around you. Walls and bars. If they ever let you out, if they ever unlock the cage, you’ll walk out an old man. Old and broken and ruined. Nothing but a blip on a film clip running on late-night television. They won’t even remember your name. They won’t even know who you are.”
She smiled then, for the first time, and it was fierce and bright. “And neither will Olivia.”
She hung up the phone, ignoring him when he beat on the glass, watching coolly as the guard came over to restrain him. He was shouting, she could see his mouth moving, see the angry color flood his face as the guard muscled him toward the door.
When they closed the door behind him, when she knew the lock had snicked into place, she let out a long breath. And felt the beginnings of peace.
The minute she arrived home, David rushed into the foyer. His arms came around her, clutched her tight. “My God, Jamie, where were you? I was frantic.”
“I’m sorry. There was something I needed to do.” She drew back, touched his cheek. “I’m fine.”
He studied her for a minute, then his eyes cleared. “Yes, I can see that. What happened?”
“I got something out of my system.” She kissed him, then drew away. Eventually she’d tell him what she’d done, Jamie thought. But not now. “I need to talk to Livvy.”
“She’s upstairs. Jamie, your father and I talked. I know they want to take her north, away from this.”
She pressed her lips together. “You agree with them.”
“I’m sorry, honey, but yes, I do. It’s going to be ugly here, for God knows how long. I think you should go, too.”
“You know I can’t. I’ll be needed at the trial, and even if they didn’t need me,” she continued before he could speak, “I’d have to see it through. I’d have to, David, for myself as much as for Julie.” She gave his arm an absent squeeze. “Let me talk to Livvy.”
She climbed the steps slowly. It hurt, she thought. Every step was painful. It was amazing, really, just how much pain the human heart could take. She opened the door to the pretty room she’d decorated specifically for her niece’s visits.
And saw the curtains drawn, the lights blazing in the middle of the day. Just another kind of prison, she thought as she stepped inside.
Her mother sat on the floor with Livvy, playing with an elaborate plastic castle and dozens of little people. Val glanced up, kept her eyes on Jamie’s, her hand on Livvy’s shoulder.
The gesture told Jamie just how torn her mother was, so she managed to fix on a smile as she moved forward.
“Well, what’s all this?”
“Uncle David bought me a castle.” Sheer delight bubbled in Olivia’s voice. “There’s a king and a queen and a princess and a dragon and everything.”
“It’s beautiful.” God bless you, David, Jamie thought and settled onto the floor. “Is this the queen?”
“Uh-huh. Her name’s Magnificent. Right, Grandma?”
“That’s right, baby. And here’re King Wise and Princess Delightful.”
While Olivia played, Jamie laid a hand over her mother’s. “I wonder if you could go down and see if there’s fresh coffee.”
“Of course.” Understanding, Val turned her hand up so their palms met.
When they were alone, Jamie sat quietly, watching.
“Livvy, do you remember the forest? Grandma’s house up in the woods, all the big trees and the streams and the flowers?”
“I went there when I was a baby, but I don’t remember. Mama said we’d go back sometime and she’d show me her best places.”
“Would you like to go there, to Grandma’s house?”
“To visit?”
“To live. I bet you could have the same room your mother had when she was a little girl. It’s a big old house, right in the forest. Everywhere you look there are trees, and when the wind blows, they sigh and shiver and moan.”
“Is it magic?”
“Yes, a kind of magic. The sky’s very blue, and inside the forest, the light is green and the ground’s soft.”
“Will Mama come?”
Yes, Jamie thought, it was amazing how much pain the heart could take and go on beating. “Part of her never left, part of her’s always there. You’ll see the places we played when we were girls. Grandma and Grandpop will take very good care of you.”
“Is it far, far away?”
“Not so very far. I’ll come visit you.” She drew Olivia onto her lap. “As often as I can. We’ll walk in the woods and wade in the streams until Grandma calls us home for cookies and hot chocolate.”
Olivia turned her face into Jamie’s shoulder. “Will the monster find me there?”
“No.” Jamie’s arms tightened. “You’ll always be safe there. I promise.”
But not all promises can be kept.
five
Olympic Rain Forest, 1987
In the summer of Olivia’s twelfth year, she was a tall, gangly girl with a wild mane of hair the color of bottled honey. Eyes nearly the same shade were long lidded under dark, slashing brows. She’d given up her dreams of being a princess in a castle for other ambitions. They’d run from explorer to veterinarian to forest ranger, which was her current goal.
The forest, with its green shadows and damp smells, was her world, one she rarely left. She was most often alone there, but never lonely. Her grandfather taught her how to track, how to stalk a deer and elk with a camera. How to sit quietly as minutes became hours to watch the majestic journey of a buck or the grace of a doe and fawn.
She’d learned to identify the trees, the flowers, the moss and the mushrooms, though she’d never developed a proficient hand at drawing them as her grandmother had hoped.
She spent quiet days fishing with her grandmother, and there had learned patience. She’d taken on a share of the chores of the lodge and campground the MacBrides had run in Olympic for two generations, and there had learned responsibility.
She was allowed to roam the woods, to wade in the streams, to climb the hills. But never, never to go beyond their borders alone.
And from this, she learned freedom had limits.
She’d left Los Angeles eight years before and had never been back. Her memories of the house in Beverly Hills were vague flickers of high ceilings and shining wood, pretty colors and a pool with bright blue water surrounded by flowers.
During the first months she’d lived in the big house in the forest, she’d asked when they would go back to where she lived or when her mother would come for her, where her father was. But whenever she asked questions, her grandmother’s mouth would clamp tight and her eyes would go shiny and dark.
From that, Olivia learned to wait.
Then she learned to forget.
She grew tall, and she grew tough. The fragile little girl who hid in closets became little more than a memory, and one that ghosted into dreams. Living in the present was another lesson she learned, and learned well.
With her chores at the campground over for the day, Olivia wandered down the path toward home. The afternoon was hers now, as much a reward as the salary her grandmother banked for her twice monthly in town. She thought about fishing, or hiking up to high ground to dream over the lake, but felt too restless for such sedentary activities. She’d have enjoyed a swim even this early in the season, but it was one of her grandmother’s hard-and-fast rules not to swim alone.
Olivia broke it from time to time and was always careful to dry her hair completely before coming home.
Grandma worried, she thought now. Too much, too often and about nearly everything. If Olivia sneezed, she’d race to the phone to call the doctor unless Grandpop stopped her. If Olivia was ten minutes late coming home, her grandmother was out on the porch calling.
Once she’d nearly called Search and Rescue because Olivia had stayed at the campground playing with other children and forgotten to come home until dark
.
It made Olivia roll her eyes to think of it. She’d never get lost in the forest. It was home, and she knew every twist and turn as well as she knew the rooms in her own house. She knew Grandpop had said as much because she’d heard them arguing about it more than once. Whenever they did, Grandma would be better for a few days, but then it would start again.
She moved through the gentle green light and soft shadows of the forest and into the clearing where the MacBride house had stood for generations.
The mica in the old stone glinted in the quiet sunlight. When it rained, the hidden colors in the rock, the browns and reds and greens, would come out and gleam. The windows sparkled, always there to let in the light or the comforting gloom. It was three levels, each stacked atop the other at a different angle with decks jutting out everywhere to stitch it all together. Flowers and ferns and wild rhododendrons hugged the foundation, then sprawled out in a hodgepodge garden her grandfather babied like a beloved child.
Huge pansies with purple and white faces spilled out of stone pots, and an enormous bed of impatiens, sassy and pink, danced along the edge of the lower deck.
She’d spent many satisfying hours with her grandfather and his flowers. Her hands in the dirt and her head in the clouds.
She started down the stone walkway, varying giant and baby steps to avoid all the cracks. She skipped up the steps, spun into a quick circle, then pulled open the front door.
She had only to step inside to realize the house was empty. She called out anyway, from habit, as she walked through the living room with its big, ragged sofas and warm yellow walls.
She sniffed, pleased to catch the scent of fresh cookies. Only sighed a little when she reached the kitchen and discovered they were oatmeal.
“Why can’t they be chocolate-chip,” she muttered, already digging into the big glass jar that held them. “I could eat a million chocolate-chip cookies.”
She settled for the oatmeal, eating fast and greedily as she read the note on the refrigerator.
Livvy. I had to run into town, to go to the market. Your aunt Jamie and uncle David are coming to visit. They’ll be here tonight.
“Yes!” Olivia let out a whoop and scattered crumbs. “Presents!”
To celebrate, she reached for a third cookie, then muttered a quiet “damn” under her breath at the rest of the message.
Stay at home, honey, so you can help me with the groceries when I get back. You can tidy up your room—if you can find it. Stop eating all the cookies. Love, Grandma
“Sheesh.” With true regret, Olivia put the top back on the jar.
Now she was stuck in the house. Grandma might be hours shopping. What was she supposed to do all day? Feeling put upon, she clumped up the back stairs. Her room wasn’t that bad. It just had her stuff, that was all. Why did it matter so much if it was put away when she’d only want to get it out again?
Her various projects and interests were scattered around. Her rock collection, her drawings of wildlife and plants with the scientific names painstakingly lettered beneath. The chemistry set she’d been desperate for the previous Christmas was shoved on a shelf and ignored, except for the microscope which held a prominent position on her desk.
There was a shoe box crammed with what she considered specimens—twigs, dead bugs, bits of ferns, hair, scrapings of tobacco and scraps of bark.
The clothes she’d worn yesterday were in a heap on the floor. Precisely where she’d stepped out of them. Her bed was unmade and in a tangle of blankets and sheets—exactly the way it had been when she’d leaped out of it at dawn.
It all looked perfectly fine to Olivia. But she marched over to the bed, dragged the covers up, slapped the pillows a couple of times. She kicked discarded shoes under the bed, tossed clothes in the direction of the hamper or the closet. She blew away dust and eraser bits from the surface of her desk, stuffed pencil stubs in the glass jar, pushed papers in the drawer and considered it a job well done.
She thought about curling up on her window seat to dream and sulk for a while. The trees were stirring, the tops of the soaring Douglas firs and western hemlocks sighing and shifting in the incoming breeze. The western sky had taken on the bruised and fragile look of an incoming storm. She could sit and watch it roll in, see if she could spot the line of rain before it fell.
Better, much better, would be to go outside, to smell it, to lift her face up and draw in the scent of rain and pine. An alone smell, she always thought. The better to be absorbed in solitude.
She nearly did just that, was already turning toward the tall glass doors that led to the deck off her room. But all the boxes and games and puzzles jammed on her shelves pricked her conscience. Her grandmother had been asking her to sort through and straighten out the mess for weeks. Now, with Aunt Jamie coming—and surely bringing presents with her—there was bound to be a lecture on the care and appreciation of your possessions.
Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Olivia snatched down old, neglected board games and jigsaw puzzles and made a teetering stack. She’d take them up to the attic, she decided, then her room would be practically perfect.
Carefully she went up the stairs and opened the door. When the light flashed on, she glanced around, looking for the best place to store her castoffs in the huge cedar-scented space. Old lamps, not quite ready to be shipped off to Good Will, stood bare of bulbs and shades in a corner where the roofline dipped low. A child-size rocking chair and baby furniture that looked ancient to Olivia were neatly stacked against one wall along with storage boxes and chests. Pictures that had once graced the walls of the house or the lodge were ghosted in dust covers. A creaky wooden shelf her grandfather had made in his wood shop held a family of dolls and stuffed animals.
Val MacBride, Olivia knew, didn’t like to throw things away either. Possessions ended up being transferred to the attic or to the lodge or simply recycled within the house.
Olivia carried her boxes to the toy shelf and stacked them on the floor beside it. More out of boredom than interest, she poked into some of the drawers, pondered baby clothes carefully wrapped in tissue and scattered with cedar chips to keep them sweet. In another was a blanket, all pink and white with soft satin edgings. She fingered it as it stirred some vague memory. But her stomach got all hot and crampy, so she closed the drawer again.
Technically she wasn’t supposed to come to the attic without permission, and she was never allowed to open drawers or chests or boxes. Her grandmother said that memories were precious, and when she was older she could take them out. It was always when she was older, Olivia thought. It was never, never now.
She didn’t see why it was such a big deal. It was just a bunch of old junk, and she wasn’t a kid anymore. It wasn’t as if she’d break something or lose it.
Anyway, she didn’t really care.
The rain started to patter on the roof, like fingers lightly drumming on a table. She glanced toward the little window that faced the front of the clearing. And saw the chest.
It was a cherry wood chest with a domed lid and polished-brass fittings. It was always kept deep under the overhang, and always locked. She noticed such things. Her grandfather said she had eyes like a cat, which had made her giggle when she’d been younger. Now it was something she took pride in.
Today, the chest wasn’t shoved back under the roofline, and neither was it locked. Grandma must have put something away, Olivia thought and strolled casually over as if she weren’t particularly interested.
She knew the story about Pandora’s box and how the curious woman had opened it and set free all the ills upon the world. But this wasn’t the same thing, she told herself as she knelt in front of it. And since it wasn’t locked, what was the harm in opening it up and taking a peek inside?
It was probably just full of sentimental junk or musty old clothes or pictures turning yellow.
But her fingers tingled—in warning or anticipation—as she lifted the heavy lid.
The scent struck her first and mad
e her breath come fast and hard.
Cedar, from the lining. Lavender. Her grandfather had a sweep of it planted on the side of the house. But under those, something else. Something both foreign and familiar. Though she couldn’t identify it, the waft of it had her heart beating fast, like a quick, impatient knocking in her chest.
The tingling in her fingers became intense, making them shake as she reached inside. There were videos, labeled only with dates and stored in plain black dust covers. Three thick photo albums, boxes of varying sizes. She opened one very like the box her grandparents used to store their old-fashioned Christmas balls.
There, resting in foam for protection, were half a dozen decorative bottles.
“The magic bottles,” she whispered. It seemed the attic was suddenly filled with low and beautiful laughter, flickering images,