Freefall (26 page)

Alone on the balcony in the ruby glow of the setting sun, Allegra placed the call. The surprise in Gentry’s voice disturbed her.

“Aunt Allegra, I’ve tried to reach you for days.”

“Well, I’m … out of town.” She’d had to call once the stations stopped carrying updates. After a surfeit of Gentry’s travails, they’d moved on. But for those living it, life didn’t jump from one point of attraction to the next. It dragged through every single hour, every minute, piling up like grains of quicksand sucking her under, and the more she resisted the faster it swallowed her alive.

While she swam and sunbathed and shopped, Rob lay in a hospital with Gentry beside him, watching and praying, united in that life-changing religion they’d found. Even so, did Gentry really think she didn’t care? Estrangement wasn’t enough, not nearly enough to destroy—but stupidity was.

Shame and sorrow dragged her deeper. “How is he?”

Gentry’s silence lasted too long. “I don’t know what you’ve heard.”

Her pulse raced. “That Rob was injured in an accident and airlifted to the hospital.” Gentry’s hesitance tortured her. “What’s happened?”

“They had to amputate his leg just above the knee.”

“What?” She sank to the chaise on the lanai overlooking Waikiki.

“His leg got infected, and they couldn’t stop it from spreading.”

The ache hit her like a punch in the stomach. She gasped.

“Aunt Allegra, I’m so sorry.”

“Is he … Does he know?”

“He’s still unconscious. He won’t know until he wakes up.”

She closed her eyes, pain triggering tears she’d sworn she’d finished with.

Gentry’s voice broke. “Do you think you could come?” An understandable request, for his wife to be there for him when he awakened, to share his desolation. But Rob had lost his leg, and she was having an affair.

Curt came out on the lanai with chilled flutes of champagne, his hair combed back and showing only hints of gray. His shirt fell open to the sternum to reveal a smooth, suntanned chest. With a crooked smile, he held out a flute. And another piece of her died.

Allegra’s eyes had reddened, Curt noted as she told the person on the phone, “I’ll have to let you know,” and disconnected.

He handed her one of the champagne flutes and pondered her expression. Dazed, maybe. “Everything all right?”

“They’ve amputated Rob’s leg.”

He stared a full beat, processing what she’d said and what it could mean. “Allegra, that’s terrible.”

She stared at the champagne in her flute. “The infection was killing him.”

“I’d rather die.” He spoke without thinking but meant it. The thought of a stump horrified him. He hoped it horrified Allegra as well. But there was always the sympathy factor.

“To someone as active and athletic as Rob, it may as well be death.”

The first fuzzy edge of a buzz tickled his head from the cham-

pagne he’d downed in the room to congratulate himself … prematurely?

She closed her eyes. “He might not make it. That serious an infection …”

Not good. If she started to internalize the situation, she might pull away.

“This has nothing to do with you, babe. It would have happened wherever you were, whatever we—Whatever our relationship looked like. He’s had two and a half years to change things, and instead he’s been off climbing mountains with his niece.” He probed the wound without mercy. She needed to get angry. And Gentry was already a sore spot.

Allegra’s throat worked as she pulled out the words, “He’ll never make another ascent.”

“He’ll find something else. Puzzles, or chess.”

She raised her gaze to him with more than a hint of disgust.

“I’m sorry. That was callous.” He’d gotten cocky, and that didn’t work with Allegra. “I just want you to see all the more that it was right to make a break. He wouldn’t want you to see him as less than a man.”

Her brows pressed in together. “Less… ?”

“Trust me, babe. The best thing you can do is let him start over with dignity.”

A tear slid down her cheek. “Do you really …”

She sniffed and stared off into that place he hated, where he couldn’t guess her thoughts. She stayed there so long he almost lost it. But then she looked up with aching eyes. “That’s what he said he’d found. A new beginning.”

“Well, then.” Curt raised his flute. “To beginnings.”

TWENTY-ONE

Cameron jolted awake and scrambled
out of bed. He caught the LED display on the clock radio as he dragged on a pair of athletic shorts. 4:00 A.M. Someone better have died. He stumbled down the stairs, groped through the dark foyer, and opened the door.

A fatality would have been preferable.

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Please, Cameron, I need to talk to you.”

Glass shards filled his throat. He pressed a hand to his eyes and motioned her inside. He considered leaving the door open for witnesses, then closed it with a sigh. He swiped the switch and blinked back the stab of light in his sleep-deprived eyes.

Myra walked halfway into the room and turned. Her collarbones jutted above the scoop-neck shirt that fitted softly over her breasts and down her ribs—each of which protruded. She’d always been tall and slender with legs that wouldn’t quit; now she was dangerously thin. She ran her fingers into the hair at her nape, silky hair that now seemed brittle. She hadn’t weathered the last four years well. Neither had he.

“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

He cleared the shards. “What would you like?”

“Tea? I can make it.”

“I don’t have any.” And she didn’t drink coffee. “The best I can do is hot lemonade.” He used to make that for her when she’d gotten sick; a quarter inch of lemon juice in the bottom of the mug, that much thick golden honey, and hot water.

“That would be nice.” Her voice broke as though she’d stumbled over the memory as well.

He went into the kitchen, turned on the light, and blinked again at the brighter infusion. A lingering aroma of lasagna remained from the frozen dinner he’d microwaved and wolfed at the computer around midnight. Four hours later, he did not want to be in the kitchen. Or the living room. Or anywhere near Myra.

He went through the steps on the lemonade; bottled lemon juice, honey a little grainy, water from the hot faucet on his sink that kept it near the boiling point. He stuck in a spoon and set the mug on the table. She could stir it herself.

Myra took a seat, drew the mug to her, and stirred. “I want to tell you something without making you mad.”

He rubbed his face. “I’m too tired for much of an outburst, so go ahead.”

She raised her eyes. “I think I made a mistake.”

Why she chose to confess that now in his kitchen was beyond him. Unless it was … “Something illegal?”

She raised the cup and sipped. “I should have known you’d think that. Are you imagining me embezzling, maybe, or faking my death?”

He scratched his beard. “I’m just going with this four-in-the-morning thing.”

She startled. “Is that what time it is?”

He sighed.

“I thought … I haven’t been sleeping.”

Or eating, by the looks of her. He felt no pang of compassion. For the first year after she’d filed for divorce, he’d wondered how bad it would be to run into her unexpectedly—like a stab in the gut, he’d guessed. The second year, he’d stopped looking for her everywhere. The third and fourth had brought a sort of numbness. Now …

“What mistake did you make, Myra?”

She drank from the mug as though it was a ritual cup, cradled in both hands like a chalice. “I remember when you first made this for me. That time I had strep throat?”

He was not willing to unpack their baggage. “What ’s your mistake?”

She hit the mug a little too hard on the table. “You still won’t listen, will you?”

“What obligation do I have? You’re not my wife, not even my ex-wife. You’re my non-wife, remember? The psychiatrist said for you the marriage never happened.”

“Yes, but now—”

“Now?”

“I made a mistake.” Her eyes pooled. “I see that now.”

That was her mistake? That was what she’d come to discuss? It was too rich. No, it was derelict. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

She pushed the mug away. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He didn’t know how to look. Away, he supposed. He leaned against the counter and stared at the wall. “And you want me to say what?”

She stood up. “That you’ll think about it.” She walked over to him, the tears interred in her eyes without falling. She could always cry with the least amount of hazard to her face. “Just that you’ll think about it.”

His mind would churn it endlessly, but he wouldn’t tell her that, couldn’t. Or she’d think there was an opening.

She rested her fingers on his arm. “Consider it in light of everything we had.” And now a tear slipped down her cheek, choreographed.

He’d wanted to see her face every day for the rest of his life. And he probably would—in his nightmares and times of despair and hopelessness. That was where her stormy eyes lurked, her smooth, creamy skin. Her perfume encircled him, intoxicating and toxic. He shook his head and whispered, “No.”

She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on his shoulder. “Because I hurt you?”

Hurt, betrayed, ripped out his heart and shared it with her dogs.

“Or because of Gentry Fox?”

He moved his shoulder away. “I told you Gentry’s a friend.”

“I saw the pictures.”

“I was helping her through the press.”

“I saw your face.”

He expelled a breath. “What do you want me to say? That after a week I’m in love with her?”

She stared into his face. “It’s there, though, isn’t it? The potential.”

“Myra.” He took her shoulders and moved her away. “It’s no longer your business to know.”

“But I do. I know everything about you.” Her voice held bitter truth.

He steeled himself. “Not anymore.”

A look of hurt disbelief passed over her face. She wanted to speak, but he willed her to silence. She’d already sunk her poison. Another word could make the dose lethal. “I’m going to bed. You can see yourself out.”

She turned and walked out of the kitchen. He heard the front door open and close and felt the draft of her passing. Her perfume and the stale lasagna formed a malodorous partnership that drove him from the kitchen, up the stairs, and into his bed. There, alone, he lay on his back in the dark and remembered loving her.

“ ‘Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea—’ ”

In a whisper Rob joined in with Gentry. “ ‘Even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.’ ”

Her eyes jerked open. “Uncle Rob.”

He smiled, taking her, and the light, and the blessed quiet into his soul. No more pounding roar. No damp shelf. Dark thoughts and doubts had fled. He was in the land of the living. Barely, though, judging by his struggle to draw breath enough to speak.

“Guess you found me.” He’d meant it thankfully, but her eyes brimmed with tears.

“I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t know what for, but he was too tired to ask. He managed a faint thank-you, then drifted back to sleep.

The next time he awakened, Gentry was there again, her smile brighter than the light blazing in the window, yet there was something forced about it, in a way she never was, even on stage. She straightened in the chair beside the bed. “Like your new room?”

Anything would be heaven after the cave. “Like it fine.” His voice rasped, but it was a little easier to talk than the last time.

“I special-ordered the view.” Again the smile that took her face by force.

He looked at her with deep affection. “The view’s great.” He raised his fingers, and she took his hand like the daughter he imagined her. And then, because he knew her so well, he asked, “Gentry, what’s wrong?”

The smile slipped away. Her fingers tightened on his. Maybe his battle had been closer than he realized, but they were both there, alive, even if his body felt like lead. He tried to raise his head, but that wasn’t a good choice.

He gathered his strength and said, “Are you all right?”

She swallowed. “Mostly. I hit my head under the falls and still can’t remember some things.” Tears filled her eyes. “Uncle Rob, I didn’t know you were there. I didn’t even know who I was. But if I’d gone to the police at once …”

He was getting the picture. All those days in the cave.

“I can’t tell you how awful I feel.”

“Honey, don’t.” He squeezed her fingers. “Don’t blame yourself.” He knew what was going through her head. If only she’d known, thought, acted differently. She’d had enough of that.

“Uncle Rob.” She drew a jagged breath. “You were out there so long, your leg got infected.”

He must be doped not to feel it. He tried to look down his body.

Her grip tightened. “They had to take it off above the knee.”

He couldn’t have heard her right. But the look on her face said he did. When he struggled again, she raised the bed up a little so he could see past his chest. One leg was under the sheet; the other, tightly wrapped, was only a stump.