Delaney's Shadow (18 page)
Authors: Ingrid Weaver
Tags: #mobi, #Romantic Suspense, #Paranormal Romance, #Fiction, #Shadow, #epub
All right, she’d enjoyed what had happened the night before. The depth of her enjoyment was what alarmed her. How could she have thought that sex wasn’t an issue? Not on the radar, she’d told herself. Look what too much denial had done. It had conjured up—
She blanked her mind fast before she could think of his name. He was liable to come back, drifting into the room on the edge of her vision, bringing the scent of paint and freshly cut grass, then making her pulse leap with the lightest brush of his fingers.
Suppressing her discontent with her and Stanford’s sex life must have led to the fantasy. She’d been in denial for years. To acknowledge this major a flaw in their relationship would have been unpleasant. It would have contradicted what she’d wanted to believe, so she’d ignored it, as was her habit. Helen was right; it wasn’t healthy to keep things inside. Bottled-up feelings found another route to the surface.
Dr. Bernhardt’s recorded voice invited the caller to leave a message. Delaney realized she hadn’t written down his replacement’s phone number. “Dr. Bernhardt, this is Delaney Graye,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry to interrupt your vacation, but would you please call me back? I’m . . .” She faltered on the word. “Worried,” she continued. “I’m remembering things I . . .”
Again, she hesitated. The memories that were upsetting her had nothing to do with the accident or her resulting amnesia. No, these were things she’d chosen to deny. She didn’t need her doctor’s help for those; she only needed the courage to face them. Max had told her that she had a powerful mind . . .
Couldn’t she go two minutes without thinking about him? Dr. Bernhardt should be able to treat her for her delusion about an imaginary friend. Didn’t they have antipsychotic drugs for problems like that? It could be as simple as taking a few pills. She could chemically banish him from her head.
No more nighttime visits. No impromptu chats. No sensations of belonging and comfort and warmth.
“Never mind, Dr. Bernhardt,” she muttered. “It will keep.” She hung up the receiver and pressed her back to the wall.
If she wasn’t clinically insane, then she was absolutely pathetic. Was she that needy? Was she actually considering relinquishing sanity for the chance to feel Max’s touch one more time?
Max. Wasn’t. Real.
A deep, masculine chuckle whispered through her brain.
Delaney clapped her hands over her ears. “Go away!” she said aloud.
Something brushed across her mouth as softly as the butterfly that she’d held in her dream.
She reflexively parted her lips, then realized what she was doing and clenched her teeth. She pictured her mind as a closed hand, then snapped her thoughts hard the way she’d done the other day at the pond.
No!
No!
He left.
All right. It had worked. That meant she did still have a modicum of control over her mind. Maybe things weren’t as bad as she feared.
“What are you afraid of, Delaney? I’ll never leave you.
”
”
That hadn’t been Max’s voice; it had been Stanford’s. When had he said that?
A fragment of memory teased the edges of her mind. She saw Stanford in their bedroom. He was wearing the same deep blue wool overcoat he’d worn to the restaurant. An off-white silk scarf draped over the lapels, and its fringe swayed as he spoke. There was an open suitcase on the padded bench that stretched along the foot of their bed.
A suitcase. Looking at it upset her. It was a symbol of a bridge that was about to be burned. She remembered rubbing her arms against a chill.
Stanford said he would never leave her.
Then why was there an open suitcase? For their trip?
She strained. She wanted to know. She
needed
to remember.
needed
to remember.
But as had happened before, the more she tried, the more the memory escaped her grasp. The fragment refused to expand. The bedroom she’d shared with Stanford faded. In its stead, she saw the four-poster in her room upstairs. She remembered Max’s voice, not her husband’s.
“Some women can be so afraid of being alone that they stay married to a monster
.
”
.
”
She shivered, rubbing her arms as she’d done in her memory. As before, thoughts of one man had triggered thoughts of the other. They were as different as two men could be, yet they were connected somehow. It was as if opening her mind to Max allowed her to see what else was buried in there.
What he’d said about a monster was overly dramatic, though. No,
he
hadn’t said it,
she
had, because Max was solely a product of her own imagination . . .
he
hadn’t said it,
she
had, because Max was solely a product of her own imagination . . .
“Enough,” she muttered, shoving herself away from the phone. Her reasoning was going in circles. It wasn’t getting her anywhere. But then, she couldn’t expect any better from a mind on the precipice of insanity.
DELANEY TOOK ONE CORNER OF THE SHEET AND PULLED it up the bed as Helen did the same on the other side. She was glad her grandmother had given up protesting about her help around the house. Preparing the rooms for new guests had become a welcome routine for her. Today, more than ever, she needed the comfort of these mundane tasks. They helped to ground her in reality.
This room used to be Helen’s sewing room. She had redone it in a palette of cream and pale blue, colors that contrasted beautifully with the dark walnut sleigh bed and matching dresser. The accessories had been kept to a minimum—the dresser was bare aside from an African violet in an earthenware teapot and a shallow willow basket that held a collection of tourist brochures. The shades of the bedside lamps were trimmed with the same pale blue as the curtains. The overall effect was an impression of cool serenity. It gave the room a country feel without the busyness of patchwork or calico. Delaney smoothed the sheet across the mattress, inhaling appreciatively as the scents of sunshine and fresh air rose from the cotton. “If a fabric softener company could duplicate this smell, they’d make a fortune.”
“I’m sure they’ve tried.”
Phoebe dropped a dustcloth on the dresser and picked up the stack of fresh towels. “I think it’s terrific how you dry everything outside, Mrs. W. It saves so much energy.”
“My grandmother’s ahead of the curve on this,” Delaney said. “She was line drying long before environmentalism got trendy.”
Helen chuckled. “Who would have thought that being old-fashioned would become fashionable?”
“I heard when they were building our subdivision,” Phoebe said, “they tried to make it illegal to hang laundry outside because it looked bad. Isn’t that insane?”
Delaney mumbled an affirmative as Phoebe ducked into the bathroom with the towels. There certainly were many ways to define insanity.
“You seem jittery today, Delaney,” Helen said, tucking a pillow under her chin as she slipped on a fresh pillowcase. “Was it a rough night?”
Which part? The nightmare or the imaginary lover? “I probably had too much coffee,” she replied. “I should cut back.”
“I know what you mean. I have to be careful myself, but I do love the stuff.”
“Funny how we can enjoy things we know aren’t good for us.”
“One of the mysteries of life.” She shook out the pillow, put it in place, and helped Delaney spread out the duvet. “Speaking of which, the potato latkes were delicious. I think I gained four pounds just smelling them.”
“Oh, come on, Grandma. You’re in terrific shape.”
“You’re the one who needs to eat, not me.”
“Not those. I know what I put into them. They’re fattening.”
Helen laughed. “Well, my guests loved them.”
“Are you talking about those potato thingies?” Phoebe asked as she returned from the bathroom. She added the used towels to the pile of stripped sheets. “They were awesome. I wish I could cook like that, Delaney.”
“It’s not hard. All you need is a good cookbook. That’s how I learned.”
“I thought you had servants to do that.” She stopped. “I’m sorry. That sounded rude.”
“No, it’s okay, Phoebe. My husband and I did have staff who took care of the household chores. That wasn’t the case when I was growing up. I learned to cook out of necessity when I lived with my father.”
“Do you think you could show me how you make your orange muffins? The ones with the dates?”
“I’d be happy to.”
“Thanks. I gave one of the leftovers to Pete, and he loved it.” She glanced quickly at Helen. “I hope you didn’t mind that I did that, Mrs. Wainright.”
“Certainly, I don’t mind. I hate seeing anything go to waste.”
Phoebe gathered the laundry into a bundle. “Is it okay if I take Friday off and work Sunday instead? Pete’s band is playing at the festival.”
Helen heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose we could muddle along without you if we must.”
“I’ll stay late to make up for it.”
“I’m just teasing, Phoebe. You go and have a good time.”
“Thanks!”
Helen smiled as Phoebe’s footsteps pounded down the stairs. “I wondered when she was going to ask me. Edgar’s been bragging about his nephew’s upcoming musical debut for days.”
“What kind of band is he in?”
“He calls it country rock. The festival committee has made it a policy to showcase the local talent.” She fluffed a tasseled throw pillow and arranged it on the bed. “We have quite a variety in Willowbank.”
“It’s at the park by the lake, right?”
“That’s the only place big enough to hold it. They seem to add more events every year. Do you remember my friend Ada Ross? She has a quilt on display in the arts and crafts tent. She took second prize last year, but I’m positive this year she’ll win.”
“Good for her.”
“It’s really a work of art. They should forget about the craft category.” She tilted her head as the bell in the downstairs hall sounded. “Oh, no. I hope the Walts aren’t early.”
Delaney turned to the dresser and picked up the dusting cloth Phoebe had dropped. “You go ahead. I’ll finish up in here.”
It pleased her that Helen left to see to her guests without an argument. At least she understood Delaney’s need to keep busy. Stanford never had.
The mental blinders came up with the thought, but she forced them aside. That particular criticism of her husband wasn’t new. His determination to put her on a pedestal had frustrated her, yet he’d insisted it was out of love. She wondered what Max would say about that. He’d told her she’d still had control of her life, yet she’d handed it to Stanford simply because they’d married.
No, it wasn’t
Max
who had told her, she reminded herself. It was her own subconscious. Odd, though, that her subconscious would raise the subject of control, since it was her struggle to corral her own imagination that was posing the biggest challenge.
Max
who had told her, she reminded herself. It was her own subconscious. Odd, though, that her subconscious would raise the subject of control, since it was her struggle to corral her own imagination that was posing the biggest challenge.
God, she had to stop obsessing about this. She should think about muffins, or latkes, or Ada Ross’s quilt. She swiped the cloth vigorously across the dresser, then tipped up the willow basket to clean beneath it. One of the brochures it contained slid over the side to the floor. She retrieved it automatically and dropped it back in the basket when an image of Max flashed across her vision.
She gritted her teeth and turned to finish dusting the sleigh bed. At least she didn’t feel his presence this time, and it had been only his face that she’d seen. A black-and-white face, as if it had been a photograph . . .
She paused. Her pulse did a quick thump. No, it was her imagination. It must have been. That was the only way she could have seen him. She looked over her shoulder at the basket of brochures.
The one she’d dropped back inside had landed facedown on the pile. There was a photograph on the back. It was a black-and-white photo of a man’s face. Even from a yard away she could see that the man seemed familiar.
She moved closer, her hand shaking as she reached out to retrieve the brochure. She flipped it to the front first, forcing herself to read the words printed there.
It was an advertisement for an art gallery in downtown Willowbank. There was a photo of a building with striped awnings over the entrance and the two front windows. The Mapleview Gallery. Open Tuesday to Saturday, 11 to 5. Sundays by appointment. The current display featured the work of famous local artist John Harrison.
John Harrison. She had never heard of him. She breathed deeply a few times, then turned it to the back.
The caption beneath the picture said John Harrison.
But the face belonged to Max.
Delaney slapped the brochure on the dresser and covered the picture with her palm.
No. This was impossible. Imaginary friends didn’t pose for photographs. They didn’t assume an alias and masquerade as real people. They weren’t famous. They existed only in the mind of their creator.
Famous local artist John Harrison.
Artist.
Sometimes Max smelled like paint. Sometimes he smelled like turpentine.
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