The Edge of Recall (17 page)

Woods spreading before her. No path. No hedge. Silver trees and
darkness. Her feet make no impression. Branches snag her nightgown,
tear the silky edge of the blanket she rubs with her fingers. She weaves
between the trunks, faster and faster. She runs, her face wet with
tears.

“Daddy!”

The darkness comes together and looms over her. “You’re not afraid,
are you?”

She hides it, hides it down deep and shakes her head.

“And you won’t say a word. Not one word.”

She woke with a jolt to find Smith watching her. “Did I scream?”

“Not yet.”

She’d been working up to it; she could tell by the dampness of her chest, the pumping in her temples. He had caught her hand in his and ran his thumb slowly back and forth along her index finger.

“It was either wake you or give our flight attendant a scare. Bad dream?”

She swallowed. “I don’t actually have them all the time.”

“Often enough, it seems.”

She frowned. “The weird thing is, there was a monster but no labyrinth. And he spoke.”

“What did he say?”

Her throat closed around the words. “I don’t know.”

The attendant brought smoked turkey on foccacia, rose-cut radishes, chocolate-dipped wafer cookies, and sweet, fresh grapes. Definitely not typical airline fare. Smith brought the trays up between their recliners to form a joint surface, and once again she was sharing a meal with him.

He said, “Would you like me to bless this?”

Her faith was private, accessed meditatively, experientially. She and Mom had attended many churches, no one denomination offering everything they looked for. Mom had said once under a sky of stars that it was more church to her than any building, but Tessa nodded. Smith’s quaint prayers warmed her.

He thanked God for the food and the opportunity before them. Not just success with Rumer Gaston, but for their friendship and maybe more. The thought caused a shiver down her spine. She looked at him. Something subtle had changed, a softening in the tightness around his eyes and mouth.

“Still shaky?” His voice was barely louder than her thoughts.

“Just processing.”

“The nightmare?”

“I don’t know why it’s changed.”

“Is it always the same?”

She shook her head. “No, but it’s always a labyrinth, and the monster chases or blocks me. It doesn’t talk and it doesn’t happen when I’m awake.” She gripped her hands. “Dr. Brenner called the panic attack new ground.”

“Is that good?”

“It doesn’t feel like it. He thinks I’m blocking something, and any breakthrough is good—except I shouldn’t be doing it without him.”

“Maybe he’s the block and I should have a shot.”

She jolted.

“Why not? I won’t even charge.” One side of his mouth pulled up. “Tell me the rest. Now the monster speaks instead of herding you.”

She wasn’t at all sure she could do this. It was one thing to pour out every detail to her therapist. Was she out of her mind telling Smith these things?

He prodded. “It talks, but you can’t understand what it’s saying.”

“No, I understand. It sa—” The block was like a blow.
“You
won’t say a word. Not one word.”

“Tess?”

She dropped the sandwich onto the plate and buried her shaking hands in her lap.

“Maybe the monster’s changing because you’re not alone anymore. Maybe this monster, whatever it is, wants you to feel isolated.”

His insight shook her. Deep in the fear was the belief that she could tell no one, that she was alone in the awful knowledge that … that what?

“I haven’t been alone. Dr. Brenner has talked me through it every time. The bad ones anyway.”

“But you don’t love him.”

“He’s as old as my dad.”

“Who left you.”

Her heart pounded. Was it possible she didn’t trust Dr. Brenner? Or maybe she thought if she let go, she’d lose him too. He’d never been unprofessional, but she depended on him as she would her own … dad.

“Maybe I can tell the monster to leave you alone.”

She shook her head. “Dr. Brenner’s tried everything to make the nightmares stop.”

“Not everything.” He set their dishes on the floor and lowered the trays. “Now then. The other night when I kissed you—”

“I am not making out on this airplane to trigger a panic attack.”

“Just enough to make it talk.”

“That’s not funny, Smith.”

“I’m not teasing, Tess. If you knew what it was saying—”

“I know what—”

“Then tell me.”

It felt as though a hand gripped her throat. “
Not a word.”

“I can’t. Not like this, not now.” She got up and went to the bathroom, more to distance herself from him than from any real need.

He stood as she returned, then retook his seat. “I’m sorry. I thought it might help.”

She sighed. “I understand. I wish I could fix me too.”

CHAPTER

16

Smith took Tessa’s cue and kept the conversation light, telling her about Bair’s wild rugger days. “He got so aggressive in the matches he’d behave badly, so drunk afterwards he behaved worse. The crowds loved him, but he didn’t think much of himself. When I offered him the chance to complete his education in the States and join me, he jumped at it.”

“I can’t picture him violent.”

“It wasn’t pretty.”

“But he’s so … gentle.”

Smith laughed. “Not on the pitch.”

“Was he good?”

“You mean to make a career of it?” He shrugged. “Good entertainment.”

“I wonder if he misses playing.”

“I’m sure to some degree.” He looked over. “Do you still play tennis?”

“I’d be very rusty.”

“Maybe we could hit around a little when we land. If the resort has a court.”

“I seem to recall you making me run a lot more than necessary.”

He smiled. “I’m rusty too.”

“Love-thirty handicap.”

“All right.” He fought another smile because he did remember making her run. “I’d like to loosen up before meeting with our clients, and the slots aren’t really my thing.”

“But if you did continue working for Mr. Gaston, wouldn’t you be designing casinos?”

“Or other resorts. Or vacation homes. Some possibilities for labyrinths there too, you know.”

“Somehow I’m not seeing it.”

He laughed. He’d forgotten what an easy conversationalist she was, naturally open, whereas Danae had made him pry out what little she ever surrendered of her inner thoughts. He’d wanted to know so much more.

Tessa picked up on his frown. “Are you worried?”

“Yes. You?”

She shook her head. “Your design is perfect.”

“Our design.”

“All I did was talk.”

“You found the heart of it.”

“Well.” She leaned back. “That’s a big part of what I do. Gleaning from the different clients the specific purpose they intend for their paths.”

“Is it ever dark?”

“Dark?”

This could get touchy, he realized, but went on anyway. “You know, like the nightmares. There is a bit of paganism involved in the whole labyrinth thing.”

“There’s paganism in Christmas trees and Easter eggs and days of the week and wedding rings.”

“Wedding rings?”

She nodded. “All of them, things Christianity has sanctified.”

“I just wondered if you’d built any, knowing they would be used for occult purposes.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Smith. Not for something satanic.”

He searched her face. “So your labyrinths draw people to God.”

“Not all. The one I just completed is more of a memorial for an old woman to remember her husband. I imagine her steps will take her through thoughts and reflections of their years together.”

“I see. Nothing frightening in that.”

“Depends”—Tessa shrugged—“on how ornery he was.”

Smith’s mouth pulled up. “Quite.”

Hot and loose-jointed from their tennis match, Tessa climbed into the shower. The exercise had been good, but now it was time to prepare for their meeting with Petra Sorenson and Rumer Gaston. She hadn’t been entirely honest about not being nervous. Had she read Petra correctly? Would Mr. Gaston accept the changes, appreciate the beauty of Smith’s design? What if her resistance to Gaston’s original plan cost Smith the contract?

She turned around in the water and let it rush over her face. She had to believe they’d both “catch the magic.” Some tweaking was possible, but by and large it was all there, a cohesive blend of their needs.

She met Smith in the lounge on the twelfth floor that Mr. Gaston had chosen for their rendezvous. She had put on the only semi-dressy outfit she had with her, a navy layered skirt with a matching off-the-shoulder top. She had pulled up her hair, since Smith thought that looked professional, and threaded her earlobes with a dangle of freshwater pearls. She had a bracelet of the same, but only the gold cross necklace her mother had given her lay in the hollow of her throat.

Still, Smith’s expression when she walked in was gratifying. His gray suit and blue shirt played off the hues in his eyes as he watched her approach. He stood with elegant ease and held the high stool at the round table. She climbed up, and he murmured in her ear, “Petra watch out.”

“This old thing?” She smoothed her skirt. “Why, I only wear it when I don’t care how I look.” She’d always wanted to use that old movie line.

“Well, it’s bewitching. You’re bewitching.” He reached over and took her hands. “How am I supposed to concentrate?”

She allowed a tiny smile.

“Tess, you’re beautiful.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“It’s just that … why do you mask it?”

She raised her brows. “I don’t. I just don’t flaunt myself.”

He brought the knuckles of both her hands to his lips. “I’m smitten.”

“That didn’t stop you destroying me on the tennis court.”

The tease was back in his eyes. “I’d have to play blindfolded not to.”

She narrowed her eyes dangerously, but before she could adequately insult him back, the dazzling duo entered the room. Or rather Petra dazzled in a slinky silver shift and Mr. Gaston rode her wake—a full six inches shorter, but every bit as commanding. His broad brow spread between deep-set eyes and a coifed hairline. His lips pulled thinly over perfectly capped teeth, yet the thickened bridge of his nose and a pale scar near one ear gave the impression of a thug who’d come into money.

He thrust out his hand, squeezing just a little too hard as he welcomed her, eyebrows raised in a way that had more to do with seeing what she thought of him than anything he thought of her. “So this is our maze specialist. You held back on me, Chandler, not mentioning your ‘expert’ was so charming. What are you drinking, Ms. Young?”

“Nothing yet. I just—”

“Champagne.” Gaston turned to the server who had materialized at his elbow. “Perrier Jouet Belle Epoque ’96.” Then to Petra. “Martini?”

She nodded with an aside to Tessa. “No bubbles.”

Tessa smiled. She was not fond of champagne herself but hadn’t been offered a choice.

“So.” Rumer Gaston rubbed his palms and eyed Smith conspiratorially. “What have you got for me?”

No small talk, then. Tessa glanced at Petra, whose mouth had firmed. Did she assume, like her fiancé, that they had ignored her requests?

The table surface would not have been adequate for blueprints, but Smith opened his laptop and accessed the CAD design that he had rendered in 3-D for this presentation. The sommelier appeared with a silver wine chiller and the champagne wrapped in white cloths. With practiced ease he kept the cork from launching, then poured the flutes to the exact height and set them around. Didn’t champagne signify completion and satisfaction? In celebrating up front, Gaston showed reckless confidence that they had done his bidding.

The server brought Petra’s martini, and even in that she’d been singled out. Tessa chose to believe Mr. Gaston merely knew her preferences, but it sent a visual message of solidarity in the rest of them. Maybe that was why he hadn’t asked hers or Smith’s opinion before ordering. It was all so subtle.

Smith gave a brief explanation of how they had created what he was about to show them. Tessa felt a prickle up her neck as Rumer Gaston realized his original expectations had been modified and Petra’s ideas given credence. At first, he simmered, but then as he grasped more and more of the plan, his mood shifted. He looked at Smith with a penetration that made her glad his focus wasn’t directed at her. When it had all been laid out, Smith stopped explaining and waited.

Petra touched Rumer Gaston’s arm and excused herself. With a motion of her head, she beckoned, and Tessa slipped off her stool, thinking her timing couldn’t be worse. This was the time to have her say, to let Rumer Gaston know what she thought.

Inside the black and copper ladies’ room, Petra situated herself before the mirror to speak as one reflection to another. She arched an eyebrow. “How did you do it?”

“Do … ?”

“That wasn’t Smith Chandler’s original design.”

“We thought about what you wanted and melded it with Mr. Gaston’s ideas.”

“But how did you make him change it? I could have
yarked
for days, and he wouldn’t have heard me.”