Rekindled (31 page)

She downed the liquid quickly, sputtering in reaction to the flame that scared her throat. Unable to think, much less speak, she let her head fall back against the sofa and closed her eyes to the world.

“Let me call your mother, Anne. She’ll want to be with you.”

Anne shook her head once, then again.

“Are you sure? Would you like me to stay awhile?”

She forced her head up and her eyes open. “No. I think I’d like to be alone.”

He looked torn, but he bent and kissed her head. “It’s over now. Keep telling yourself that. It’s all over.” With a reassuring pat to her shoulder, he let himself out.

Over. Well, it certainly was that. Anne’s heart might have grieved for what had been lost that day, but her mind simply shut down. Exhausted and in need of escape, she dozed off within minutes right there on the sofa. The harsh peal of the phone brought her awake with a jolt.

It was her mother, filled with concern. “Ted just called and explained what happened. Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound it.”

“I was sleeping. I’m worn out.”

“Would you like me to run over and take you out … for a late lunch, perhaps?”

Anne shot a startled look at her watch. It was nearly two-thirty. Lunch had fallen by the wayside, along with her appetite. The thought of food turned her stomach.

“Anne?”

“Yes, Mother. No, thanks. I don’t feel like eating.”

“Was the deposition that bad?”

It couldn’t have been worse, she thought. “It was … difficult.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

“I’m sure.” She forced a smile into her voice, for her mother’s sake, but it vanished the instant the words were out.

The older woman sighed. “All right. I’ll call you later. Get some rest.”

“I will. And thanks for calling, Mom.”

“You’re welcome, darling. Bye-bye.”

She hung up the phone thinking that, more than anything, she needed a shoulder to cry on, but the tears refused to come. For a time, she wandered aimlessly from room to room, window to window. Eventually she changed into jeans and an oversized shirt and, barefoot, returned to the living room. She felt every bit the hollow shell she must have looked. The view from the window held nothing for her. Nor did a glance at the day’s mail. Unable to muster energy, she stretched out on the sofa.

One hour passed, then another, and the enormity of the day’s happenings sank in. Mitch had deceived her. Oh, it might have started innocently enough in September, but in time she had mentioned the crash, even its date, and the upcoming trial. He might have spoken up then. He might have spoken up last night.

She held her stomach tightly. If only she could cry. If only she could scream. Instead she felt drained, heartbroken, half whole.

The telephone rang again. She tried to ignore it under a layer of pillows. When it kept up, she realized that if it was her mother again and she didn’t answer, the woman would be on at her door in no time flat.

With an effort, she dragged herself from the sofa and went to the wall phone in the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Anne?” His voice was deep and, in spite of everything, dear.

Stunned, she quietly hung up the phone. Wobbly legs took her back to the sofa. She doubled over there, hugged her knees to her chest, and waited for him to call again. In a matter of seconds, the phone began to ring. She let it ring and ring and ring. She rocked back and forth, suffering with the sound. She tried covering her ears with her hands, but the ringing seemed to grow louder and louder, more and more harsh, crueler and crueler.

At last, it ceased. Only then did she break down and weep.

The days that followed were pure hell for Anne. After tears, came selfrecrimination. She had been naive, she had been irresponsible, she had been wanton. She should never have returned to the cabin after the first week. She shouldn’t even have stayed there then.

Selfrecrimination gave way to anger, and she railed on at Mitch for a while. She didn’t understand how a person could do what he did. And he kept calling her! She cringed each time the phone rang and answered only to avoid visits from her family. When it was Mitch, she hung up.

Her seclusion was more total than it had been after Jeff’s death, because no one, but no one, knew about Mitch and her. If her parents sensed that her reaction to the deposition was extreme, they attributed it to the final pain of losing Jeff. She let them believe that, rather than having to tell them what a fool she’d been.

She couldn’t begin to think of the future. Once again, it was a frightening void. Each day was a challenge. Her only hope was in wiping Mitch from her mind, and it was easier here in New York. They hadn’t spent time together here. There were no memories of him here, other than of the deposition, but, there, he hadn’t been the man she loved.

On occasion she thought of Vermont. Spring would be coming there. She would have liked to see the lilacs bloom and smell their fragrance. So there was a loss in this, too.

He stopped calling after the first few days, but, try as she might, she was never able to push him far from mind. Her father actually mentioned him one afternoon.

“I received a call from Mitchell Anderson the other night. You know, the head of SEAA?”

Did she know him? Did she know him!

“Seems like a nice fellow. He wanted to make sure you were all right, since you seemed so upset at the deposition.”

“Wasn’t that considerate of him,” she snipped bitterly. Guilt feelings. Good. Let him suffer “How did he know to call you? He doesn’t know my maiden name.” But, of course, he could find it out. He could find out anything he wanted. Powerful men got what they wanted without batting an eyelash.

“He called Ted first,” her father explained. “He hesitated to call you directly, for fear of upsetting you more.”

“Wise man.” Upsetting me more. That was cute.

Anthony Faulke eyed her with gentle reproach. “It was considerate. After all, his airline’s been found innocent in the matter. Technically, it’s no concern of his any longer.”

Anne didn’t care that his airline was innocent. In her mind, Mitch was still a deceiver.

She was angry with no one to yell at, heartsick with no one to hug, and if she moped about for the better part of each day, the nights were no better. She was obsessed by a living nightmare, waking and sleeping.

By the middle of the second week, she was at the end of her rope. So she lined up several fast interpreting jobs that would get her away from paper translations and out into a people-oriented mainstream again. And it worked. She got a handle on her emotions.

Then she was thrown a setback. Her doorbell rang one evening when she wasn’t expecting anyone. Leaving the chain latch in place, she opened the door the several inches allowed and peered out to find Mitch there. She closed the door with a slam. The bell rang again and again. She went to the most remote corner of the apartment, crossed her arms on her chest, and vowed to let it ring.

She wasn’t prepared for the loud pounding that followed. He was making a godawful racket.

Fearing that he would have her neighbors out in no time, she returned to the door. “Go away!” she yelled, hoping that her voice would carry through his ruckus.

It did. His returning call was muffled, but she heard every word. “Not until I’ve spoken with you, Anne.”

“Go away! I don’t want to talk!”

“You’ll have to.”

Irate, she reopened the door those few allotted inches. “I don’t have to do anything. Now, please leave, or I’ll call the police.” It took very ounce of restraint for her to remain calm when she would have liked nothing more than to run him through with a carving knife.

He looked agitated. “I’m trying to be patient, Anne, but you refuse to take my calls. We have to talk. There are things I have to explain.”

She seethed. “Sorry, bud, but you had your chance, and you passed it up. You had all those days and nights to tell me who you were and what your business was, but you didn’t. You were so cagey. I’ll see you soon, Annie, soon.” She contorted her voice to mock him. “But you didn’t bother to tell me when, did you, Mitch? Well, I don’t want to talk now.”

She leaned against the door to shut it, only to find he had a foot in the way.

“Move!” she ordered hoarsely. She was wearing down in more ways than one.

He swore. “Hell, Anne, but you can be stubborn. If we were back in Vermont, I’d know just what to do.”

“We’re not in Vermont!” she screamed, uncaring that others might hear. “I’ll never be there again. Now, leave!” Every muscle in her body quivered.

“Fine,” he gave in. “I’ll leave, but I’ll be back. If not here, I’ll catch you somewhere else. On the street, in a restaurant, even at your parents’ house, if need be. I can be devious. You can’t stay holed up in this place forever. And I won’t give up!”

When his foot slid back into the hallway, Anne slammed the door shut then, she turned and ran, trembling, toward the bedroom, where she huddled against the headboard like a hunted animal. He could be devious; that was putting it mildly! She would see him again, and the thought filled her with dread.

Determined not to be made a prisoner in her own home, Anne booked even more jobs. She was all over town, with varied and interesting people, but the diversion she wanted came only in bits and snatches. Ever on guard against running into Mitch, she found herself looking over her shoulder wherever she went, half expecting to find him ready to pounce. It was nerve-racking, to say the least. After more than a week of running from place to place and feeling haunted, she grew discouraged.

The worst of it was that that she didn’t see him, and that deep inside, in a place she didn’t want to know about, she was disappointed because of that. The pain went on.

Relief came from her parents in the form of an invitation to spend time with them at the shore. Yes, they tended to smother her, but she could use a little smothering now. She wanted to be pampered and loved. She wanted to be protected from Mitch. The change of scenery would be good. She planned to make the most of it.

The first of May found her dressed in a bright yellow sundress, waiting beside her bags at the front entrance of her apartment building. She checked the street, then her watch. Her parents had promised to be there at one. It was one-fifteen now. They weren’t usually late.

With a brief word to the doorman, she returned to her apartment, dialed her parents’ home phone, waited through ring after ring. Assuming they were on their way, she went back downstairs. What she found there stopped her cold.

With the doorman’s ready assistance, her bags were being loaded into the trunk of a shiny brown Audi that she didn’t recognize. But she did recognize the man who stepped from its far side. He was sun-bronzed and gorgeous in a pullover and white ducks, looking as handsome and masculine as could be, and very, very smug. Before she could find her tongue, he opened the rear door of the car and leaned in. When he straightened, he was carrying the most beautiful child Anne had ever seen.

Her breath faltered. How could he? He wasn’t playing fair, wasn’t playing fair at all-and he knew it, if the mischief in his grin meant anything.

“Hi, Annie!” He greeted her as though nothing was wrong. “Hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long. Traffic was a bitch. I think we have all your bags. Is there anything else inside?”

Anne may have been thick in the past, but she wasn’t thick now. He had known she would be waiting. He had known what time to come. He would never have brought the child, if he hadn’t been sure of the outcome. That meant her parents were in cahoots with him.

Had it been Mitch, alone, she would have turned and run. But when she looked at the child, she was lost. The six-year-old wore pink bib-topped shorts, a white jersey, and clean white sneakers. Her limbs were tanned, long legs dangling around Mitch’s thighs. Golden cascades of curly hair fell half%way down her back, held off from her face by gaily painted barrettes above either ear. But the barrettes were small and couldn’t quite hold all her hair. Short wisps escaped into tendrils that framed her face. And that face? If Anne hadn’t been in love with the rest, that face would have done it. It was softly rounded and rosy checked, with a swarm of bright freckles over the bridge of a button nose, and eyes that were chocolate-colored and soulful-and staring at her.

“Oh, my,” Mitch said. “I’ve almost forgotten introductions in my rush to get going. Anne, this is my daughter, Rachel Anderson. Rachel, this is Anne Boulton.”

With more poise than Anne could seem to muster, the child extended a small hand. “Hello, Anne. I’m pleased to meet you. Daddy’s told me all about you.”

Anne held her hand, loving its fragility and its warmth. “Only the good things, I hope?”

Rachel’s eyes rounded quickly. “Oh, my daddy would never say anything bad about you. He-“

“That’s enough, pumpkin,” Mitch cut her off with a squeeze. “You can’t give away all our secrets, now, can you?”

The child broke into a wide grin, displaying a mouthful of small white teeth with a wide gap smack in the middle of the top.

Anne was enchanted. “That’s quite some hole you’ve got there. Did the good fairy bring you something nice for those teeth?”

Again the grin, along with owl eyes. “I got a whole dollar for each of them. Daddy says he only got a quarter when he was a little boy, but that the good fairy was afraid I might swallow a coin, so she gave me paper. I’m really glad,” she bubbled and lowered her voice in confidence, “‘cause you can’t buy much for a quarter.”

Anne laughed. “You’re a perceptive little girl.”

Mitch appeared to agree. Pride was written all over his face, and he had a right to that pride where the child was concerned. Not where his own behavior was concerned, though. For starters, he should be ashamed of himself for using her as a shield.

“Uh, perhaps you ladies are ready to go. The sooner we leave the city, the sooner we’ll reach the cabin.”

The cabin? Her heart stopped. She couldn’t go to the cabin.

But Rachel’s eyes were glued to hers and Mitch’s held clear warning.