Endless Fear (13 page)

She raised from her sore knees to a squat and found her cramped muscles welcomed the switch. From here she also had a better vantage into the chest. A band of sunlight stabbed through the dirty window, glinted off something shiny and gold and into her eyes. Blinking, she reached for the offending object. The quiet inside the attic seemed to creep in on her as her fingers coiled about the cool metal and dredged the weighty statue from the depths of the trunk.

Lily’s Oscar
.
Surprise arrowed through April. It had once retained a look-but-don’t-touch prominence on the mantle in the living room. And now it was relegated to the belly of a steamer trunk, buried as soundly as its owner. There was something incongruous, April thought, when a symbol of accomplishment many aspired to and few attained, a trophy whose bestowal proclaimed exceptional artistic achievement, was hidden away like some shameful deed.

Shaking her head, she set the statue on the floor. The trunk was nearly empty. All that remained was another packet of envelopes bound by a navy blue satin ribbon. More fan letters, she presumed, half-heartedly catching hold of the bow.

As the packet cleared the rim of the chest, the tie gave. Envelopes slewed free and spilled across April’s lap, alighting in a haphazard array around her Nikes.

“
Ohhh.” She rolled her eyes and plopped her bottom squarely on the hard wooden floor. Tingles stung her flesh from thigh to toe as the circulation in her legs restarted. This whole thing had been a waste of time and now she had a couple dozen letters to round up before she could repack the trunk.

Sighing, she seized a handful of the loose envelopes and started to pat them into a semblance of order. The other fan letters had been mailed to Lily in care of her studio in California, but these, she noted, displayed addresses in various cities around the world. And they were all written in the same hand. Her father’s.

At random, and feeling like an interloper, she extracted one of the letters and spread it open on her lap. The paper was slightly discolored, but the penmanship and the sentiment were as bold and unique as one of August’s inventions. She read only enough to know it was a love letter. A quick glimpse at others told her they were all of the same vein and had been written during the early years of the marriage, before Lily’s illness.

The simple declarations of love washed an emotional tide through April. As a smile tugged her mouth, a lone tear trickled down her cheek. Although he’d managed to convey the seriousness of his affections, typically, her father’s messages were succinct, precisely two pages each. But the thing which staggered her was this evidence that Lily had at one time not been the heartless creature she had known. Her mother had loved August Farraday. There could be no other reason for her to have kept these letters and bound them together in a bow the exact color of his eyes.

She scooped up the last envelope and frowned. It was noticeably thicker than the rest. Why, she wondered, would so methodical a man suddenly vary his routine? Concluding there was only one way to find out, April plucked the pages free, disinterring four sheets this time instead of the usual two. She spread the papers on her lap, and ironed them smooth with her palms.

The first two pages were quintessential take-offs of the other love letters written by her father to Lily. But a prickling ran across her flesh as she scanned the third and fourth sheets. Poems. These too were written to Lily, but not by August Farraday. The passionate phrases, the crude immature composition--both suggested the author was a much younger man. And, God help her, the handwriting looked familiar.

Without warning, a memory took possession of her. Thirteen years slipped away. The coolness of the attic became the warmth of that summer day, blowing around her like the soft breeze coming through the French doors in the den. The house was unusually quiet. Her father was in his workshop, Helga and Karl at their cottage, Aunt March was weeding in the garden, and Jesse had taken Cynthia into Friday Harbor. The twins were nowhere to be found, and April was bored.

Hushed voices drew her to the den. Unaware of any effort on her part to conceal her approach, she’d surprised them nonetheless. Her mother and one of the twins, sitting close, touching, so engrossed in one another she was nearly to the couch before they heard her. Like startled birds, they’d jerked apart.

Whether it had been Spencer or Thane with her mother, she hadn’t known, still couldn’t say. Without looking her way again, he’d departed in a cloud of embarrassment, darting out the French doors seconds after releasing Lily.

Her mother had smiled at her with practiced innocence in her lovely eyes and said, “Don’t look so shocked, Baby. He was just getting something out of my eye.”

Baby, Lily’s pet name for her, had been calculated to make her feel and act like an eternal child. And it had worked well that day. Naively, she’d accepted her mother’s explanation. But now the truth lay in her hands, and it felt as heavy as the Oscar had.

“
April?” Spencer’s deep voice went through her like an electric shock.

The jolt lifted her an inch off the floor and stripped away her breath. She rounded on him, fury oozing from every pore. “What’s the matter with you—sneaking up on a person like that? You nearly gave me heart failure.”

His dark brown brows lifted in amusement. He strode across the attic until he stood less than four feet in front of her. “I called your name three times.”

Three times.
How long had he been there? Gazing up at him, she clutched the poems against her slamming heart. “I—I didn’t hear you.”

Squatting, he absently fingered the edge of the papers she clutched. “I noticed. Whatever you were reading here had you completely absorbed.”
The same way his
thoughts were absorbed by her.
It was crazy, but she looked damned irresistible with her nose smudged with dust, and her satiny gold hair as mussed as though she’d just awakened. God, how he wanted to touch her, kiss her. Struggling to keep his voice level, he stated, “Vanessa thought you might still be up here. Lunch is almost ready….”

The movement of his fingers touching the edge of the paper rattled April. It was all she could do to swallow a hysterical giggle before it reached her open mouth. If ever she needed composure it was now, but that commodity seemed in short supply. His eyes held her a willing captive, and suddenly it didn’t matter that she’d been discovered delving into the
forbidden
past, or that he literally had his hand on evidence which could potentially alter both their futures. Unable to look away from his intense gaze, she nodded toward the helter skelter items piled next to the trunk. “I’ll be down to the kitchen as soon as I put these things back.”

Letting go of the papers, he caught a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, savored the feel for a whole second, then let it fall back against her cheek as he watched her eyes darken from aqua to turquoise. He swallowed hard. The compulsion to hold her struck him again, this time so strongly the wind felt knocked from him. It took every ounce of willpower he had to straighten to his full six feet and step away from her. He forced a smile. “You know if you squeeze those papers just a wee bit tighter they’ll make great spit balls.”

“
What?” Bewildered, she glanced at the poems and realized in her agitation she’d tweaked them like an accordion fan. “Oh, my.” Immediately flattening the papers over her thigh, she pressed them with her palms, managing to ease the largest of the wrinkles.

“
What are those ‘spellbinding’ documents anyway?” Spencer asked.

Indecision drummed inside her head like a ticking bomb. Should she confront him with the poems now and let the chips fly, or just play it by ear? But Spencer hadn’t waited for her answer or her decision. He was too busy eying the trunk, the scrapbooks, the posters, and Lily’s Oscar. Scrambling to her feet, she braced for the forthcoming battle.

Instead of the anger she expected to see, his expression was pensive. “What do you suppose it says about a person when their whole life can fit into a trunk?”

Surprised by his question, April floundered for a reply. “I-I don’t know, but then mine wouldn’t take up that much space.”

His gaze flicked to hers. In that second, she could have sworn she saw a flash of guilt in his eyes, which had changed from dove to pewter, but it happened so rapidly she couldn’t be sure.

He waved a hand at the trunk and its disgorged contents. “Are you going to take this stuff back to Phoenix with you?”

Growing more perplexed by the minute, she asked, “What, no lectures on leaving the past alone?”

“
No. You have every right in the world to your mother’s things. All I ask is that you don’t drag the rest of the family down any nostalgic alleyways.”

Anger flared anew inside her. “And why exactly is that? Lily is dead! She can’t reach out from the grave and hurt anyone.” The papers in her hand suddenly felt like they were burning her fingertips. She stared down at them, then back at Spencer, with a sinking heart. “Or can she? You wrote these poems to my mother, didn’t you? And you’re afraid your precious career will be ruined if someone finds out about you and Lily?”

“
What?” He looked incredulous. “What are you talking about?”

God, she wanted to believe him innocent, but worry was written all over his face. She waved the papers under his nose. “These….”

Snatching the pages from her, Spencer hastily scanned the crude prose. The warmth drained from his dace. Damn! Why hadn’t these been destroyed with the others? He weighed his options quickly. His years in the political arena had taught him a politician could sweet-talk his way out of most sticky situations, but he despised himself for playing fast and loose with April. Still, there was the flip side of the coin to consider. Adopting a forthright expression and a placating tone, he said, “I’m no poet. I didn’t write these and I don’t know who did.”

But the tips of his ears glowed red with the lie, leaving April only one conclusion. Spencer
had
been the twin with Lily in the den that long ago summer day. The certainty left her feeling oddly bereft.

“
Really?” She barely forced the word from her cottony mouth and completely failed to keep the sarcasm from her tone.

His face was so close to hers, his exasperated sigh ruffled her hair. This time he waved the papers under her nose. “Now you see why I didn’t want you digging up ancient history. If
you’re
this worked up about some archaic sentiment penned by some adolescent Romeo—imagine what the gossip hungry press would do with it. Are you willing to put the family through that kind of harassment, through a barrage of suspicion and innuendo? Not to mention August. Have you even considered how these might hurt him?”

So that was what was bothering him. The smokescreen he kept throwing up about the press suddenly made sense. Spencer wasn’t worried about his career, but of the inevitable, irreparable rift in the family if her father discovered one of his present wife’s sons had carried on an affair with his first wife. Not to mention the loss of August’s affection and respect, both of which she’d observed were important to Spencer. She couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, even though the dilemma was of his own making.

But he needn’t fear her. She just wanted to restore her lost memory. Surely the only Pandora’s Box
that
would open was her own. “Daddy is shrewder than you give him credit for. I don’t remember my mother showing him much love. What makes you think he doesn’t already know about Lily and…and…these poems?”

Spencer blanched. “On the off chance that he doesn’t, I want your promise to put these poems away and forget you ever saw them.”

“
And if I don’t?”

For a full ten seconds they had a stare down, then finally Spencer blinked and turned his gaze to the floor. His voice was low when he spoke; she had to strain to hear. “April, there may be things about your mother you don’t want to know.”

Isn’t that for me to decide?
she felt like shouting at him. But she feared she already knew more than she wanted to. Without any explanation, she plucked the papers from his grasp and jammed them into the envelope. At the moment she was sick to death of Lily, and the memories she evoked. “Well, don’t just stand there. Help me get this stuff back into the trunk.”

Puzzled by, but grateful for, her sudden change of heart, he decided it was best not to question it or comment on it. He bent his knees and gathered an armful of scrapbooks.

In no time, they had the lid closed and the leather straps buckled. He maneuvered her to the stairs, insisting they hurry to the kitchen and feed his growling stomach.

They started down the narrow stairwell with April in the lead. Abruptly, she rammed to a halt. All of a sudden it seemed she was peering into a dark, bottomless abyss, and if they took one step more they would both plunge to their deaths.