Shifting Shadows (9 page)

Even in the suits she wo
re to work, the blue jeans at home, she’d always been alluring. That had been something he’d had to fight from the first day he’d moved in next door to her. But yesterday, when he’d found her in that skimpy gown, seen the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips and the long, sleek lines of her legs as she clung to him—

He picked up his paints and tried to immerse himself in the process of creation, to avoid thinking of her and the way she
looked at him with undisguised, innocent desire in her eyes.

He forced himself to concentra
te on the contours of her house in his painting, the ideal picture if she should accuse him of keeping too close an eye on her. But he couldn’t seem to get the lines right. It wasn’t what he wanted to paint. He wanted to work on the other paintings, the ones that seemed to grow of their own volition from the fibers of his brush, the ones of her.

But he wasn
’t going to, didn’t dare. Those pictures, especially the portrait, revealed too much, more than he could deal with.

Determinedly he studied the architecture of the graceful old house, the big tree in front of it. It would be a good painting, something he could admire when this was all over. He
’d probably never be able to look at her portrait again. He ought to destroy it now.

But he couldn
’t concentrate on the house. His eyes strained to see through the walls, to the woman within. What was she doing now?

He clenched his teeth, forced himself to remain seated. He would not march across the yard, slide
a credit card into that simplistic lock, invade her house, make her talk to him, touch her, hold her, kiss her lush lips—

No! That was not why
he was here.

He took his materials inside
but moved his chair close to the front window, in position so he could watch her door, the side of her house, see the light in her bedroom and know when she went to bed.

A car passed, and he tensed, leaning forward, but it didn
’t stop. Phillip hadn’t returned.

He wished
Analise hadn’t pulled the curtains. But was that, he questioned himself brutally, because he needed to see what she was doing or simply because he wanted to see her?

*~*~*

Passing the hall mirror where she’d been so terrified of her own image, Analise hesitated and looked again, raising a hand to touch her cheek. She felt the hand. The face belonged to her. She recognized it now. But still it seemed to be more a mask than her real face. The tale about a former resident of her house clung stubbornly.

And the journal that she
’d hidden in the attic—if it existed—might very well be the source of her fantasy. If she found the history of Elizabeth Dupard recorded in a book, perhaps exposing the origins of her fabrication would shock her back to reality.

She located a flashlight and went up the stairs,
determined to find the answers if they were there. But she hesitated at the door. Illogically, she felt a little sad that she might lose Elizabeth, lose a part of herself.

She forced herself to turn the knob. The door swung open easily, and she shone the beam of her light into the dimness that stretched before her.

Except for a few boxes in one corner, the attic was empty.

Everything was gone—
her baby furniture, the big rocker where she’d sat to write in her journal, the drop-leaf table, the trunks full of old clothes that she and Rachel had laughed at but loved to dress up in. She could visualize all of it, knew exactly where everything had been, how the rocker had wobbled slightly, the way Grandmother’s green velvet dress had felt beneath her childish fingers, the musty smell that clung to the old clothes.

But at the same time,
she could see the attic as Analise had first seen it—dusty with a few pieces of old furniture and odds and ends, like the lamp table downstairs and the clock on the mantel. She looked at her hands, her long, slender hands, Analise’s hands, and remembered holding the clock almost reverently, polishing it and restoring it to its proper place in the parlor.

Her gaze was drawn inexorably to the low window at one side of the room. With a thrill of excitement she crossed the floor and knelt in front of it. She
’d been with Papa when he’d replaced it. A hailstorm had broken the glass, and he’d removed the entire frame to repair it.

With a child
’s delight, Elizabeth had exclaimed over the
hiding place
she discovered, the spaces between the attic floor joists that had been revealed when Papa removed the wide windowsill. He’d laughed and agreed to leave the thick board loose so she could slide it in and out, hide her treasures beneath it.

That was where, in later years, she
’d kept her journal. Excitedly she tugged on the wooden sill, but it didn’t budge. The flashlight’s beam revealed that several layers of paint had sealed it in place.

She sat back and examined it
...and the memory returned of doing the same thing a few weeks ago. She’d still been unpacking and arranging things and had brought up a box of Christmas decorations to store. After stashing them in the corner, she’d been inexplicably drawn to the attic window, had experienced an eerie knowledge that the sill was movable, would provide her with a much-needed hiding place.

But it hadn
’t moved, and she’d dismissed the odd experience.

Analise
rocked back on her heels as she considered this latest memory. Was her mind playing tricks again? Was this an instance of déjà vu or had Analise somehow known about Elizabeth’s hiding place?

How could she?
Unless she’d lived Elizabeth’s life, and the house had brought back memories of that life.

She shook her head to dispel the strange ideas. She had no evidence there really was a hiding place under the board. It could all be a part of her fantasy.

She went downstairs to the kitchen and selected two knives, one large and sturdy, the other small and pointed, then located a hammer. She could and would prove or disprove this particular element of her delusions. If she tore out the windowsill and found nothing, she’d have to accept that she was Analise and only Analise. Elizabeth Dupard was a fantasy.

Returning to the attic, she positioned the flashlight so it shone on the area, kicked off her shoes and bent to her task. The paint was thick and rubbery, effectively disguising the cracks between the boards. Chipping away, she reflected that she was making quite a mess
to clean up as well as to repaint.

Finally all the seams of the boards were exposed. She sat back and ran a hand across her forehead. Though it was
not overly warm in the attic, she’d begun to perspire, only partly from her exertions.

If a hiding place e
xisted, what would that prove? That she had read or heard about it somewhere? But if Analise had found an old journal, read it and replaced it, such a book couldn’t be hidden here. The layers of paint hadn’t been disturbed in years.

Whatever the truth was, she had to know.

She slid the blade of the large knife into the crack then smacked the handle with the hammer, driving it down, breaking through the remaining paint. A few more whacks in strategic places loosened the board.

In fear and eagerness, she grasped the windowsill and tugged. After a moment
’s resistance, it slid out. She pushed it aside and shone the flashlight directly into the space beneath.

The flashlight
’s beam revealed a dusty, leather-bound journal.

Tentatively she reached down to touch it, fought back tears when she found it real and substantial. Slowly she brought it from its hiding place, cradled the thick book in her hands, gently blew away the dust.

The brown leather cover was cracked and dry, but she recognized her journal. Papa had given it to her for Christmas in 1905. He
’d told her how important it was that she record the events of the rapidly changing world and the still young century in which they lived.

Hesitantly, fearfully, joyously, she opened the cover. On the flyleaf in the familiar copperplate handwriting she
’d labored so hard to learn were the words
Journal of Elizabeth Catherine Dupard, December 25, 1905.

By the flashlight
’s beam she read the faded writing on the first page:

Papa says I should write about all the important things in the world, and so I shall! Surely Christmas is
important, is it not? Today was wonderful. We had ever so many lovely gifts, and Mama made her ham with the delicious honey sauce.

The words flowed on, and
Analise read them and remembered the stories in vivid detail.

The winter they were snowed in for three days
.

Papa says we are having the worst bli
zzard since he was a little boy. Truly it sounds frightful with the wind howling and banging the tree limbs against the house. When I look out, all I can see is swirling snow. I can’t even see Rachel’s house.

But even though I know it
’s terrible outside, I feel so deliciously warm and safe sitting in front of the fire and drinking hot cocoa with Mama and Papa. I find it hard to hate the storm.

That same year they
’d had an epidemic of measles and Elizabeth had become ill.

I was home in bed for three days feeling awf
ully sick, but no red spots came like Rachel had. I was glad because she said they itched frightfully. But then I heard Mama and Papa talking. She said if the spots didn’t break out, I’d never be well. A few minutes later Mama came to my bed and offered me a cup of something hot. I asked her what it was, and she said, “You know how much you like gingerbread? Well, this is ginger tea. Quick now, drink it all down in one big gulp.”

I do love gingerbread, especially with lemon sauce.

And while I didn’t feel like eating or drinking anything, I drank the tea to please Mama.

It didn
’t taste like gingerbread! It burned all the way down to my stomach, and before I knew it, measles were popping out all over! Mama knows such a lot about everything!

She skimmed the pages, felt a nostalgic loneliness as she read the everyday minutiae of her life.

Then in 1911…

I don
’t know how to tell this. It’s been a month, and still I can’t stop crying, can’t accept it.

Dear, sweet Papa is gone. He caught a cold, like we all do every winter. But he got sicker and sicker and
finally took to his bed. He didn’t even go in to the bank to work. He got so pale and stopped eating or even talking. All he did was cough in a way that sounded like his chest was tearing inside. When he breathed, it was loud and raspy, and I knew it must hurt him.

The doctor came and said he had pneumonia. He gave him medicine, but Papa got worse. Mama and I took turns sitting by hi
s bed, holding his hand and trying to make him drink water, a spoonful at a time. Usually he didn’t even wake up. When he did open his eyes, I’m not sure he saw us.

Then the doctor came back and said we had to put him in hosp
ital. They took him away, and he never came back.

She remembered the pain, felt it as acutely as if it had just happened
, as if she had been there. She could see Papa’s ashen face, hear his racking cough and labored breathing. She had to pause for a moment and remind herself that her own beloved father was alive and well. It was Elizabeth’s father who had died.

She knew that. She just didn
’t believe it.

Spellbound, she read on. The next entry was only a co
uple of weeks later.

I thought I couldn
’t live with the pain of losing Papa, but now things are even worse. Mama says we don’t have any money. If we can’t find some boarders to take in, we’ll have to sell the house and move to St. Louis to live with Uncle Otis and Aunt Martha.

How it must grieve Papa if he
’s looking down on us.

Even as she finished reading that page, before she turned to the next, a chill darted down her spine. She remembered what had happened next.

Surely Papa is watching over us from above! Blake Holbert has asked Mama for permission to marry me! He’s come calling several times since his father died two weeks after Papa, but I never dreamed he’d offer for me. His father owned the factory, the town! And now Blake owns it all. He’s a very rich man and ever so handsome. He says he’ll be a good husband to me, and he’ll take care of Mama. I can’t believe he wants to marry me when he could have any girl in town, but of course I said I would!

Elizabeth had recorded her excitement and anxiety over the prospect of being a bride. Blake was devastatingly handsome. Every girl in tow
n envied her. But there were secrets about marriage that Mama told her would only be revealed by her husband. Elizabeth and Rachel whispered and giggled, but really knew nothing.

The entries changed immediately after the wedding. As she read the details,
Analise relived the uncomprehending fear, the sense of weakness and vulnerability as Blake exercised the rights of a husband in 1912.

I made Blake angry again, only this time was worse than ever before. This time he didn
’t stop at shouting or slapping me.

When he came in from work, I could tell he was upset. I tried to be careful not to make it worse, but my gravy was lumpy. He threw the bowl at me. I ducked, and it hit the wall. Then he screamed at me for making a mess, and he grabbed me and shoved my face in it, then hit me again and again. I started to cry, and that seemed to make him even more furious, but I couldn
’t stop. He dragged me upstairs and into bed, and I can’t tell the rest. I never knew married life was like this. Mama said there were things only my husband could tell me about, but I know Papa didn’t hit Mama, and surely he never did those other things.

Still,
I mustn’t complain. Blake takes good care of Mama. He gives her money every month, a generous amount, she says.

I waited for the bruises to heal before I came home to see Mama so she and Rachel wouldn
’t know. The pages of this journal are the only place I dare talk about this. I must always be careful to keep it hidden in my special place here at home. If Blake becomes so enraged because I make gravy with lumps or talk too much about Papa, I shudder to think what he’d do to me if he ever found this book with all my complaining.

If only I could hide myself here as easily. If only Papa had
n’t died—but he did, and I’m a married woman now.

Analise
felt the desperate anguish of being trapped, saw before her a lifetime of nothing but pain, pain that assaulted her on both physical and emotional levels. Within a matter of months, Elizabeth had changed from a sheltered, happy girl who dreamed of rainbows to a scared wife who cringed every time she heard her husband’s voice.

She wanted to help that girl, have Blake thrown into jail,
teach Elizabeth to stand up to him, but at the same time, she realized that neither had been a possibility in 1912.

A sudden noise from downstairs jolted
Analise back to the present. She held her breath, listened carefully. There it was again—a floorboard creaking! She was no longer alone in the house!

Heart pounding furiously, she laid down the journal and switched off the light. With a start, she realized it had grown dark while she read.

The sound came again. She hadn’t imagined it.

She forced herself to control her frantic breathing. Maybe if she remained very quiet and still, the intruder would leave, wouldn
’t think of looking for her in the attic.

But something rose up in her. No! She
’d hidden from things too long, and where had it gotten her? Blake had always found her, had continued his cruelty.

Well, Blake was gone, turned to dust, couldn
’t hurt her now, and if whoever was downstairs intended to try, she’d beat him to the punch. With trembling fingers, she groped in the darkness until she found the largest knife.

Someone was coming upstairs, trying to catch her u
naware, just as he had in her dream. But this time she had the advantage. This time she could hide in the shadows. This time she could push him or stab him, defend herself!

Moving rapidly and soundl
essly on bare feet, she tiptoed down the attic stairs and slid along the wall until she reached the second floor landing, the same place her attacker had stood in her dream.

A massive, hulking shadow moved stealthily up the steps.

Terror rose from her chest into her throat and threatened to choke her, send her into a mindless panic. But from somewhere even deeper, anger gave her the strength to remain rational and wait.

As
the figure reached the top and looked around, her heart seemed to stop its furious pounding and shatter into a thousand pieces. Even in the dark, she recognized Dylan’s features.

Paralyzed by fear and pain, she could do nothing but watch as he turned on the landing and started down the hallway toward her room. Even with his suspicious actions, she hadn
’t really believed he could hurt her...hadn’t wanted to believe it.

Obviously he could
...and would.

Her great resolution of a few minutes before had come
to naught. She hadn’t pushed him, hadn’t stabbed him...wasn’t sure she could. If it had been a stranger...

But it wasn
’t. The man stalking her, making her blood run cold with terror, was the same man who’d stayed with her through the fearful tests at the doctor’s office, the same man who heated her blood with another emotion every time he touched her.

She tore her gaze away from him, made herself face the reality of her situation. She had to get out of there be
fore he came back and found her.

She flew down the stairs, making no effort to be quiet, only to get away. As she reached the front door, she snatched the key ring off its hook. Already she could hear footsteps behind her, pounding
along the hall, down the stairs.

She raced across the yard to her car, fumbling frantically for the right key. But her fingers shook so badly she dropped the ring. As she stooped to retrieve it, Dylan charged up and yanked it from her grasp.

She still had the knife in her other hand. She focused on one spot—his throat. He wasn’t a person, only a target. She drew back her arm and aimed.

He jumped backward, dodged and grabbed her arm.

“Analise! It’s me!”

She kicked at his shin, her movements hampered by the narrow skirt she
’d worn to work. She landed only a glancing blow, but he swore loudly. Then, with a sudden move, he locked one leg around hers, turned her and pinned the hand holding the knife behind her back.

Blind, desperate fury at her vulnerability propelled her onward. She tried to kick him again with her free leg, and they both fell to the street, Dylan landing on top.

She lay trapped beneath his weight, but unwilling to admit defeat. Struggling vainly, she searched for a weak spot.

“
Damn it, stop!” he panted. “I’m sorry I frightened you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Gradually, one by one, his words penetrated, and her mania ebbed marginally. She lay still, not quite believing, but
biding her time, waiting for her chance.

“
Drop the knife, and we can both get up,” he said cautiously.

“
No,” she gasped, unwilling to surrender something he obviously feared. “Get away from me first.”

He mumbled a few more expletives as she felt his weight lessening, though he still clutched her arm. With a sudden movement, he released her completely.

She rolled away and came up in a crouch facing him. He stepped back, both hands raised in front of him. “Now, just relax,” he said, his words jerky from his own breathlessness, though he was making an effort to sound soothing. His hair was mussed, his shirt was pulled half out of his blue jeans, and he didn’t look threatening at all. He looked appealing, masculine.

“
What were you doing sneaking into my house?” she demanded.

“
Trying to check on you, make sure you were all right. I was worried about you. Your lights never came on.”

Anger replaced the
fear. “What were you doing watching for my lights in the first place? Why are you always watching me?”

“
Why? You fall down the stairs and wake up thinking you’re somebody who died before you were born, and you don’t consider that reason enough for me to check on you, to be concerned about you?”