On Mystic Lake Part 7

He gave her a tired smile. "One day she loved me with all her heart and soul, and the next day, she wouldn't even speak to me. It was worst at night; sometimes she'd kiss me, and other times she'd roll toward the wall. If I even touched her on those nights, she'd scream for me to get away. She started telling wild stories-that I beat her, that Izzy wasn't really her child, that I was an imposter who'd murdered her real husband in cold blood. It made me me . . . crazy. The more she pulled away, the more I reached out. I knew I wasn't helping, but I couldn't seem to stop myself. I kept thinking that if I loved her enough, she'd be okay. Now that she's gone, all I can think about is how selfish I was, how stupid and naive. I should have listened to that doctor and hospitalized her. At least she'd be alive. . . ." . . . crazy. The more she pulled away, the more I reached out. I knew I wasn't helping, but I couldn't seem to stop myself. I kept thinking that if I loved her enough, she'd be okay. Now that she's gone, all I can think about is how selfish I was, how stupid and naive. I should have listened to that doctor and hospitalized her. At least she'd be alive. . . ."

Without thinking, Annie reached for him, touched his face gently. "It's not your fault."

He gave her a bleak look. "When your wife blows her brains out in your bed, with your baby daughter just down the hall, believe me, she she thinks it's your fault." He made a soft, m.u.f.fled sound, like the whimpering of a beaten pup. "G.o.d, she must have hated me. . . ." thinks it's your fault." He made a soft, m.u.f.fled sound, like the whimpering of a beaten pup. "G.o.d, she must have hated me. . . ."

"You don't really believe that."

"No. Yes. Sometimes." His mouth trembled as he spoke. "And the worst part is-sometimes I hated her, too. I hated what she was doing to me and Izzy. She started to be more and more like my mother . . . and I knew, somewhere down inside, I knew I wasn't going to be able to save her. Maybe I stopped trying . . . I don't know."

His pain called out to her, and she couldn't turn away. She took him in her arms, stroking him as she would have soothed a child. "It's okay, Nick. . . ."

When he finally drew back and looked at her, his eyes were flooded with tears. "And there's Izzy. My . . . baby girl. She hasn't said a word in months . . . and now she thinks she's disappearing. At first it was just a finger on her left hand, then her thumb. When the hand went, she started wearing a black glove and stopped talking. I've noticed lately that she only uses two fingers on her right hand-so I guess she thinks that hand is disappearing, too. G.o.d knows what she'll do if . . ." He tried to smile. She could see the superhuman effort he was making simply to speak, but then he failed. She could see when the control slipped away from him, tearing away like a bit of damp tissue. "What can I do? My six-year-old daughter hid under her bed one night because she heard a noise. She wanted to go to her mommy and get a hug, but thank G.o.d, she didn't. Because her mommy had put a gun to her head and blown her brains out. If Izzy had walked down the hall that night, she would have seen bits and pieces of her mommy on the mirror, on the headboard, on the pillow. . . ." Tears streaked down his unshaven cheeks.

His grief sucked her under, mingled somewhere in the darkness with her own pain. She wanted to tell him that it would all be okay, that he would survive, but the words wouldn't come.

Nick gazed at her, and she knew he was seeing her through the blur of his tears. He touched her cheek, his hand slid down to coil around her neck and pulled her closer.

She knew that this moment would stay with her forever, long after she wanted to forget it. She would perhaps wonder later what had moved her so-was it the s.h.i.+mmering of the stars on the lake, or the way the mixture of moonlight and tears made his eyes look like pools of molten silver? Or the loneliness that lay deep, deep inside her, like a hard square of ice pressed to her broken heart.

She whispered his name softly; in the darkness it sounded like a plea, or a prayer.

The kiss she pressed to his lips was meant to comfort; of that she was sure, a gentle commiseration of understood heartache. But when their lips touched, soft and pliant and salty with teardrops, everything changed. The kiss turned hot and hungry and desperate. She was thinking of Blake, and she knew he was thinking of Kathy, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the heat of togetherness.

She fumbled with the b.u.t.tons on his s.h.i.+rt and pressed her hands beneath the worn flannel as quickly as she could, sliding her open palms against the coa.r.s.e wiry hairs on his chest. Her hands moved tentatively across his shoulder, down his naked back. Touching him felt secret and forbidden, dangerous, and it made her want want . . . . . .

With a groan, he wrenched his s.h.i.+rt off and tossed it aside. Annie's clothes came next. Her gray sweats.h.i.+rt and bra sailed across the wet gra.s.s like flags of surrender.

Cool night air breezed across her bare skin. She closed her eyes, embarra.s.sed by the intensity of her desire. His hands were everywhere, touching her, rubbing, stroking, squeezing, sliding down the curve of her back. In some distant part of her mind, she knew that she was getting carried away, that this was a bad idea, but it felt so good. No one had wanted her this badly for a long, long time. Maybe forever . . .

They became a wild, pa.s.sionate tangle of naked limbs and searching mouths. Annie gave in to the aching pleasure of it all-the hard, calloused feel of his fingers on her face, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, between her legs. He touched her in places and ways she'd never imagined, brought her body to a throbbing edge between pleasure and pain. Her breathing shattered into choppy, ragged waves, until she was gasping for air and aching for release. "Please, Nick . . ." she pleaded.

She clung to him, feeling the damp moisture of tears on her cheeks, and she didn't know if they were his or hers or a mingling of the two, and when he entered her, she had a dizzying, desperate moment when she thought she would scream. . . .

Her release was shattering. He clung to her, moaned, and when she felt his o.r.g.a.s.m, she came again, sobbing his name, collapsing on his damp, hairy chest. He gathered her into his arms, stroking her hair, murmuring soft, soothing words against her ear. But her heart was pounding so hard and her pulse was roaring so loudly in her ears she had no idea what he said.

When Annie fell back to earth, amid a shower of stars, she landed with a thud. She lay naked beside Nick, her breathing ragged. Overhead, the sky was jet-black and sprinkled with starlight, and the night smelled of spilled wine and spent pa.s.sion.

Very slowly, Nick pulled his hand away from hers. Without the warmth of his touch, her skin felt clammy and cold.

She grabbed one end of the blanket and pulled it across her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s, sidling away from him. "Oh, my G.o.d," she whispered. "What have we done?"

He curled forward, burying his face in his hands.

She scouted through the wet gra.s.s and grabbed her s.h.i.+rt, pulling it toward her. She had to get out of here, now, before she fell apart. "This didn't happen," she said in a whispery, uncertain voice. "This did not not happen." happen."

He didn't look at her as he scooped up his clothes and hurriedly dressed. When he was armored again, he stood up and turned his back on her.

She was shaking and doing her best not to cry as she dressed. He was probably comparing her to Kathy, remembering how beautiful his wife had been, and wondering what the h.e.l.l he'd done-having s.e.x with a too-thin, too-old, too-short-haired woman who had let herself become such a nothing. . . .

Finally, she stood. She stared down at her own feet, wis.h.i.+ng the ground would open up and swallow her. "I better get-" She'd been about to say home home, but she didn't have a home any more than she had a husband there waiting for her. She swallowed thickly and changed her words. "Back to my dad's house. He'll be worried-"

At last, Nick turned to her. His face was lined and drawn, and the regret in his eyes. .h.i.t her like a slap. G.o.d, she wanted to disappear. . . .

"I've never slept with anyone but Kathy," he said softly, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Oh" was all she could think of to say, but his quiet admission made her feel a little better. "This is a first for me, too."

"I guess the s.e.xual revolution pretty much pa.s.sed us by."

Another time it might have been funny. She nodded toward her car. "I guess I should get going."

Wordlessly, they headed back to the car. She was careful not to touch him, but all the way there, she kept thinking about his hands on her body, the fire he'd started deep inside her, in that place that had been cold and dead for so long. . . .

"So," he said into the awkward silence, "I guess Bobby Johnson was lying when he said he nailed you after the Sequim game?"

She stopped dead and turned to him, fighting the completely unexpected urge to laugh. "Nailed me?" me?"

He shrugged, grinning. "He said it, not me."

"Nailed me?" She shook her head. "Bobby Johnson said that?" me?" She shook her head. "Bobby Johnson said that?"

"Don't worry-he said you were good. And he didn't even imply imply a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b." a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b."

This time she did laugh, and some of her tension eased. They started walking again, across the wet gra.s.s, to her car. He opened the door for her, and it surprised her, that unexpected gesture of chivalry. No one had opened a car door for her in years.

"Annie?" He said her name softly.

She glanced up at him. "Yes?"

"Don't be sorry. Please."

She swallowed hard. For a few moments, Nick had made her feel beautiful and desirable. How could she feel sorry about that? She wanted to reach out for him again, anything to stave off the cold loneliness that would engulf her again the moment she climbed into her rented car and closed the door. "Lurlene told me you were looking for a nanny . . . for Isabella. I could watch her . . . during the day . . . if that would help you out. . . ."

He frowned. "Why would you do that for me?"

The question saddened her; it was full of mistrust and steeped in a lifetime's disappointments. "It would help me me out, Nick. Really. Let me help you." out, Nick. Really. Let me help you."

He stared at her a long time, that wary cop's look again. Then slowly, pointedly, he took hold of her hand and lifted it. In the pale moonlight, the three-carat diamond glittered with cold fire. "Don't you belong somewhere else?"

Now he would know what a failure she was, why she'd come running back to Mystic after all these years. "My husband and I have recently separated. . . ." She wanted to say more, tack a lighthearted excuse on the end of the glaring, ugly statement, but her throat closed up and tears stung her eyes.

He dropped her hand as if it had burned him. "Jesus, Annie. You shouldn't have let me act like such a whiny a.s.shole, as if no one else in the world had a problem. You should have-"

"I really really do not want to talk about it." She saw him flinch, and was immediately sorry for her tone of voice. "Sorry. But I think we've had enough shoulder-crying for one night." do not want to talk about it." She saw him flinch, and was immediately sorry for her tone of voice. "Sorry. But I think we've had enough shoulder-crying for one night."

He nodded, looking away for a minute. He stared at his house. "Izzy could use a friend right now. I'm sure as h.e.l.l not doing her any good."

"It would help me out, too. I'm a little . . . lost right now. It would be nice to be needed."

"Okay," he said at last. "Lurlene could use a break from baby-sitting. She and Buddy wanted to go to Branson, and since Izzy's out of school . . ." He sighed. "I have to pick Izzy up from Lurlene's tomorrow. I could meet you at her house-she lives down in Raintree Estates-you remember where that is? Pink house with gnomes in the front yard. It's hard to miss."

"Sure. What time?"

"Say one o'clock? I can meet you there on my lunch break."

"Perfect." She stared up at him for another long minute, then turned and opened her car door. She climbed in, started the engine, and slowly pulled away. The last thing she saw, out of her rearview mirror as she drove away, was Nick looking after her.

Long after she'd driven away, Nick remained on the edge of the lawn, staring down the darkened road. Slowly, he walked back into the house, letting the screen door bang shut behind him. He went to the fireplace and picked up the photograph of the three of them again. He looked at it for a long, long time, and then, tiredly, he climbed the long, creaking staircase up to his old bedroom. Steeling himself, he opened the door. He moved cautiously inside, his eyes adjusting quickly to the gloom. He could make out the big, unmade bed, the clothes heaped everywhere. He could see the lamp that Kathy had ordered from Spiegel and the rocking chair he'd made when Izzy was born.

He grabbed a T-s.h.i.+rt from the floor, slammed the door behind him, and went down to his lonely couch, where he poured himself a stiff drink. He knew it was dangerous to use alcohol to ease his pain, and in the past months, he'd been reaching for that false comfort more and more.

Leaning back, he took a long, soothing drink. He finished that drink and poured another.

What he and Annie had done tonight didn't change a thing. He had to remember that. The life she'd stirred in him was ephemeral and fleeting. Soon, she'd be gone, and he'd be left alone again, a widower with a damaged child who had to find a way to get through the rest of his life.

There was a light on in the living room when Annie pulled up to her dad's house. She winced at the thought of confronting him now, at two o'clock in the morning, with her clothes all wrinkled and damp. G.o.d, she probably smelled like s.e.x.

She climbed out of the car and headed into the house. As she'd expected, she found Hank in the living room, waiting up for her. A fire crackled cheerily in the fireplace, sending a velvet-yellow glow into the darkened room.

She closed the door quietly behind her.

Hank looked up from the book he was reading. "Well, well," he said, easing the bifocals from his eyes.

Annie self-consciously smoothed her wrinkled clothes and ran a hand through her too-short hair, hoping there was no gra.s.s stuck to her head. "You didn't need to wait up for me."

"Really?" He closed the book.

"There's no need to worry. I'm a h.e.l.l of a long way from sixteen."

"Oh, I wasn't worried. Not after I called the police and the hospital."

Annie sat down on the leather chair beside the fireplace. "I'm sorry, Dad. I guess I'm not used to checking in. Blake never cared . . ." She bit back the sour confession and forced a thin smile. "I visited an old friend. I should have called."

"Yes, you should have. Who did you go see?"

"Nick Delacroix. You remember him?"

Hank's blunt fingers tapped a rhythm on the cover of the book, his eyes fixed on her face. "I should have expected you'd end up there. You three were as tight as shoelaces in high school. He's not doing so good, from what I hear."

Annie imagined that Nick was a delectable morsel for the town's gossips. "I'm going to help him out a little. Take care of his daughter while he's at work, that sort of thing. I think he needs a breather."

"Didn't you two have sort of a 'thing' in high school?" His gaze turned a.s.sessing. "Or are you planning to get back at Blake?"

"Of course not," she answered too quickly. "You told me I needed a project. Something to do until Blake wakes up."

"That man's trouble, Annie Virginia. He's drowning, and he could take you down with him."

Annie smiled gently. "Thanks for worrying about me, Dad. I love you for it. But I'm just going to baby-sit for him. That's all."

"That's all?" It wasn't a question.

"You told me I needed to find a project. What am I supposed to do-cure cancer? I'm a wife and mother. It's all I know. All I am." She leaned forward, ashamed that she couldn't tell him the whole truth-that she didn't know how to be this alone. So, she told him the next best thing. "I'm too old to lie to myself, Dad, and I'm too old to change, and if I don't do something something I'm going to explode. This seems as good as anything. Nick and Izzy need my help." I'm going to explode. This seems as good as anything. Nick and Izzy need my help."

"The person you need to help right now is you."

Her answering laugh was a weak, resigned little sound. "I've never been much good at that, now have I?"

Chapter 8.

Annie threw back the covers and stumbled out of bed, the gauzy filaments of a nightmare wrapped around her. It was the same dream she used to have years ago, and she'd begun lately to have it again. She was trapped in a huge mansion, with hundreds of empty rooms everywhere, and she was searching desperately for a way out.

Her first thought when she woke was always Blake? Blake? But, of course, he wasn't beside her in bed. It was one of the many aspects of her new life to which she would have to become accustomed. There was no one to hold her after a nightmare. But, of course, he wasn't beside her in bed. It was one of the many aspects of her new life to which she would have to become accustomed. There was no one to hold her after a nightmare.

It was getting harder and harder for her to believe that Blake would ever come back to her, and the loss of that transient hope made her feel as hollow as a reed sucked dry by the summer heat.

Tears stung her eyes. Last night she had broken her marriage vows for the first time in her life; she had shattered the faith she'd made with the only man she'd ever loved. And the h.e.l.l of it was, he wouldn't care.

Nick was just getting ready to sign off for his lunch break when the call came in, a domestic disturbance on Old Mill Road.

The Weaver place.

With a sigh, Nick radioed the dispatcher and asked her to put a call in to Lurlene. He wouldn't make his meeting with Annie and Izzy.

Flicking on his siren and lights, he raced down the rutted strip of asphalt that led out of town. He followed Old Mill Road along the winding curves that sidled along the Simpson tree forest, over the concrete bridge above the choppy silver rapids of the Hoh River, and came at last to the driveway. A lopsided, dented mailbox, rusted to the color of Georgia mud, hung precariously from an arched piece of weathered driftwood. He turned cautiously down the road, a narrow, twisting swatch cut by hand from the dense black forest around it. Here, deep in the rain forest, no sunlight penetrated the trees; the foliage had a dark, sinister cast even in the middle of the day. At the end of the mud lane, a half-acre clearing b.u.t.ted up against a hillside of dense evergreen trees. Tucked into the back corner of the clearing a rickety mobile home squatted in the mud. Dogs yelped and barked at his entrance.

Nick radioed the dispatcher again, confirming his arrival, and then he hurried from the squad car. With one hand resting on the b.u.t.t of his gun, he splashed through the puddles that pocked the driveway and charged up the wooden crates that served as the front steps. He was about to knock when he heard a scream from inside the trailer.

"Police!" he yelled as he pushed through the door. It swung inward and cracked on the wall. A shudder reverberated through the room. "Sally? Chuck?"

Outside, the dogs went wild. He could imagine them straining on their chains, snapping at one another in their desperation to attack the trespa.s.ser.

He peered through the gloomy interior. Avocado-colored s.h.a.g carpeting, littered with beer cans and ashtrays, m.u.f.fled the heavy sound of his boots as he moved forward. "Sally?"

A shriek answered him.

Nick ran through the dirty kitchen and shoved through the closed bedroom door.

Chuck had his wife pinned to the fake wood paneling. She was screaming beneath him, trying to protect her face. Nick grabbed Chuck by the back of the neck and hurled him sideways. The drunken man made an oofing oofing sound of surprise and stumbled sideways, cracking into the corner of the pressboard bureau. Nick spun and grabbed him again, cuffing him. sound of surprise and stumbled sideways, cracking into the corner of the pressboard bureau. Nick spun and grabbed him again, cuffing him.

Chuck blinked up at him, obviously trying to focus. "G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Nicky," he whined in a low, slurred voice. "What in the f.u.c.k are you doing here? We was just havin' a argument. . . ."

Nick holstered a fierce, sudden urge to smash his fist into Chuck's fleshy face. "Stay here, G.o.dd.a.m.n it," he said instead, shoving Chuck so hard he crashed to the floor, taking a cheap Kmart lamp with him. The lightbulb splintered and left the tiny room in shadows.