The Bliss Factor (18 page)

“Will those things make you happy? Because you’re not happy now.”

“Well.” Rae searched, but there didn’t seem to be a response to that, at least not one she could put into words. There were a lot of feelings, all muddled up inside her, a confusing whirl of fear and discomfort and indignation. But mostly there was disappointment, because he was right.

Whatever else Connor Larkin might be, he had this way of cutting right to the heart of any matter. He’d certainly pegged her, and not who she told herself she was, or the woman she let other people see. Somehow, in less than three days, he’d come to know
her
, the little girl who’d grown up as Sunny and felt out of place, and the adult who’d renamed herself Rae and still hadn’t quite found her true place in life. But she’d gotten closer, she reminded herself. She was on the way to finding herself, and standing still wasn’t going to get her there.

She chose not to say as much to Conn. He’d only make her doubt herself again, probably in less than ten words.

They drove awhile in silence. Rae was just beginning to relax when her cell went off: “Money, money, money, money, MONEY,” the ring tone she used for P.I.G.

“Hello?” she said into the phone, tentative until she heard Morris Greenblatt’s voice on the other end. And then she didn’t relax completely because he wouldn’t be calling her if there wasn’t a problem.

“Mr. Ratcliffe called this morning,” he said, confirming her worst suspicions since Ratcliffe was one of her biggest and most demanding clients, not to mention he’d been with the firm since its founding so he knew Putnam and Ibold personally. “He’s waiting for his third-quarter financial statements and tax estimate.”

“It’s a bit soon for those to be ready. I still have some work to do on them.”

“I told him as much,” Greenblatt said, “but he wants them by Friday.”

“I can do that,” Rae said, hoping she was right and knowing she wasn’t since she’d brought clothes and food but no work files. And the chances of getting her life back were nonexistent as long as she was saddled with Sir Blanksalot.

“Three more of your clients left messages as well, but I won’t bother you with them right now. Just make sure Mr. Ratcliffe gets what he wants.”

Or else
, Mr. Greenblatt’s tone implied. Or else she wouldn’t have to worry about making partner again this year. Or having a job, for that matter.

“I will, Mr. Greenblatt. Thank you.”

“Ms. Blissfield? Rae.”

“Yes?”

“Is . . . is everything all right? It sounds like you’re in a car.”

“Everything is fine,” she said, ignoring the part about the car. “The statements will be ready.” She winced a bit, told herself she’d find a way to make that the truth.

“Bad news?” Conn asked as she disconnected and slipped her phone back into her purse.

“Just my job,” she said, “one of those accomplishments that are making me so unhappy.”

“Then quit.”

“I was being facetious. No, never mind. I know what you think of my job.” And she didn’t want to hear it again. She was tired of feeling wrong for wanting a house and security, and okay, so she wasn’t happy, she was lonely, but Connor Larkin wasn’t the cure for that. And she’d be fine. Just as soon as she made partner she could relax a little, and when she wasn’t working eighty hours a week anymore she’d have time for a life. And then she’d be happy.

She glanced over at Conn. He looked like he heard everything she’d just thought. And he wasn’t buying it. “What do you know, anyway?” she demanded. “You think I’m deluding myself that a partnership is what I want? What about you? You won’t get your memory back. Not can’t.
Won’t
. What does it say about a man when he doesn’t want to know who he is?”

Conn didn’t respond, but he didn’t shrug her off, either. For the first time since she’d met him he looked troubled. She regretted destroying his tranquility, even though she knew his peace of mind was costing them. Costing her.

“I’m sorry, Conn, but we aren’t going to be safe again until you start facing . . . everything. Yourself.”

“That was your place of work. On the phone just now.”

“Yes, but it’s not about that—Okay, it’s partly about that.” She was pushing him to be honest with himself. He deserved the same from her. “I want my life back, but it’s not just that. I’m not . . . this.” She gestured around her, but the plush interior of the Cadillac didn’t quite send the message she intended. “I don’t like having people chase me, or come into my house and threaten me with guns. I don’t like being worried and confused and
afraid
all the time.

“I know you think I’m unhappy, but I like stability. I like having a job, I like giving my clients what they want, and you’re right, it’s boring sometimes—a lot of the time, actually. And sure, the partners at my firm are way too anal, and maybe, just once, I’d like to take all my clients’ money and plunk it down at the casino because, hell, playing the stock market is just as much of a gamble, and the casino would be a lot more fun.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Because I’m an adult, and adults have responsibilities. That’s why it’s called work. It’s not supposed to be fun all the time. There are people counting on me, and right now I’m letting them down. So are you.”

“Do you think so?”

“You’re not here by accident, Conn. That guy on the phone. Mike. He told you to get your memory back, right?”

“Right. Except I don’t know how.”

“Just relax.” Rae shook her head. “I can’t believe I just said that to you. You could teach the Dalai Lama how to be at peace. You don’t sweat anything, let alone the small stuff.”

“Sweat?” Conn sniffed at his armpits.

She rolled her eyes. “The only thing you’re fighting is yourself. You keep having these dreams but you fight your way out of them. Heck, you’ve barely slept the last two nights.”

“Your point?” Conn asked, the tone of his voice a warning she ignored.

“I’m willing to bet they’re not just dreams. They’re memories, and you need to stop running away from them.”

Conn mulled that for a minute, then nodded. His expression was calm, but a muscle in his jaw clenched and released, clenched and released.

Rae didn’t know what he saw in those dreams, but she was glad she wasn’t the one who had to face them.

 

 

EVEN WITH A STOP FOR A QUICK LUNCH, MACKINAW City was less than four hours out of Detroit. The city huddled in the shadow of the Mackinac Bridge, which stretched over the Straits of Mackinac, connecting Michigan’s Lower and Upper Peninsulas. Fort Michilimackinac, an authentic colonial-era fort, sat on the Lake Michigan side at the southern foot of the bridge, the Lower Peninsula side. But what seemed to interest Rae the most, Conn noticed, was a series of docks with large boats coming and going at regular intervals from the commercial part of the city. She’d parked the car there by the docks and gone into a little office, coming back out a few minutes later with papers appearing similar to the ones handed out upon entrance to the Renaissance faire in Holly Grove.

“I kept an eye on the highway behind us,” she said, consulting the folded paper in her hands, “and I never saw the Honda. I don’t think we can relax completely, but there’s no reason we can’t have a little fun while we’re here.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Ever been to Mackinac Island? What am I saying, even if you had you wouldn’t remember it.”

“What is so fun about Mackinac Island?”

“No cars allowed. Everyone gets around on foot or horseback, or by carriage or bicycle.”

Conn didn’t see where that was such a treat, but he followed her to a window where she bought tickets, then went to stand in a queue that consisted of them and a handful of people who did not appear to be tourists.

“They’re probably locals,” she said.

Conn decided the look on his face must still be skeptical because she said, “Really, it’s a popular vacation spot in Michigan, although people usually come earlier in the season.” She stared into the gunmetal sky, wrapping her arms around herself.

“It turned cold,” he said.

“Can’t be more than sixty degrees, and there’s a cold front moving in from the north. At least that was the forecast on the radio.”

She wore only a thin coat that seemed poor proof against the cold and even less against the wind gusting in off the water. He suffered from little of either, thanks to the jacket she’d purchased for him. His cold came from inside.

Rae was right; he had to face the dreams that weren’t dreams. Problem was, he didn’t know how to bring it about. He was asleep when the dreams came. By the time he realized he was fighting his way out, the opportunity to face the truth had been lost.

Conn moved in behind her, sheltering her from the wind, but wanting to take comfort as much as give it. He rested his hands on her shoulders, just rested them there. She smiled up at him, which was all the warmth he could have asked for. And more than he deserved.

The man at the gangplank waved them forward, saying listlessly, “Last ferry of the day,” and taking the tickets Rae handed him. Conn wanted to sit inside, with the few other passengers, where it was warm. Rae wasn’t having any part of that.

“If this thing capsizes,” she said as she climbed the stairs just inside the entrance, “I’d rather risk hypothermia and have a fighting chance than drown trapped inside a glass coffin.”

“The water is much warmer than the air,” Conn said as they came out into the open, and the wind, even stiffer on the completely exposed upper deck, hit him full in the face. “You’re more likely to freeze to death up here.”

But when the boat started up, he was glad they were out there. The view was amazing, even when the boat began to move and the wind all but knocked him off his feet. He braced himself behind the railing at the very front of the boat and took it all in, the clean scent of the water, the gulls wheeling and shrieking overhead, looking for a handout. The bridge was dark against the cloudy sky, the city they’d just left receding as the boat eased out of the harbor.

“I changed my mind,” Rae yelled. “Just shout
I’m king of the world
and let’s go inside.”

“What?”

“I’m going to stand in the stairwell, out of the wind.” Conn stayed there another minute, but he knew even if Rae was out of the wind she was still freezing. He turned to go sit with her, and found Harry and Joe standing behind him.

“Rae,” Conn said, but his eyes were on Harry’s gun—a different gun since the first one was in Rae’s trash can.

“She’s kind of busy,” Harry said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

Rae was by the railing about halfway down the upper deck, squaring off against Kemp. She looked up and caught Conn’s eyes. She was furious. It took real work to keep the smile off his face.

“You do exactly what I tell you,” Harry said, “or she’s toast.”

Even if he hadn’t heard that saying before, there was no mistaking the way Harry brandished his gun. “She gets anywhere near a toaster and you’re dead,” Conn told him.

“You just come with us and nobody will get hurt.” Conn pointed at Kemp. “He leaves first, or I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry exhaled heavily. “Why can’t this ever be easy?”

Joe shook his head. Everyone ignored him.

“Look,” Harry said, “we just want to know who you are and where you’re from.”

“Didn’t you get the bulletin?” Rae yelled at him. “He doesn’t know any of that stuff. He lost his memory when you conked him over the head.”

“Hit him again,” Kemp suggested. “See if that gets his brains unscrambled.”

“That only works in the movies,” Rae and Conn said at the same time and with the same exasperation.

“Whatever,” Harry said. “We’ll just keep you company until your memory comes back. And just in case you need some incentive, I think Red should hang around, too.”

“Hey,” she shouted at Harry, “I have a job, you know.”

“So do I,” Harry shouted back. “And a gun.”

“I am really tired of this,” Rae said.

“Yeah, well, what are you gonna do about it?”

“This.” And she kicked Kemp in the balls.

He went down hard. Harry and Joe both sucked in their breath, hunching automatically. Conn did the same.

“Well?” Rae shrieked at him. “What are you waiting for? Go medieval on their asses.”

Conn lunged at Harry. Harry shot once, the bullet going wide, then there was a click and nothing.

Ray spread her hands. “Only one bullet?”

Conn shook his head and grabbed Harry. Joe grabbed him, which barely slowed him down as he quickstepped Harry to the railing at the back of the ferry and tossed him over. Joe took one look at Conn, who was turning to deal with him, and jumped in after his friend.

“Huh,” Rae said, joining him at the railing to watch Harry and Joe bob off into the distance. “I wonder if they can swim.”

“Bloodthirsty,” Conn said.

“Drowning doesn’t actually involve blood.”

“It appears they can at least float, so drowning is probably too much to hope for. Although no one on this ferry seems to have noticed that two men have gone overboard.”

“We’re not more than a half a mile from shore, three-quarters tops, and you said the water is warmer than the air, so they’ll survive. And I think they could use some company.” She looked back at Kemp, still on the deck and turning blue. Probably not from the air temperature.

“I’m not sure he’s breathing yet,” Conn said. He might have known she’d perk up at that.

“What?” she said, just his expression enough to make her defensive. “I told you I was tired of being chased.”

“They’re not the real problem,” Conn pointed out. “They’re working for someone, and if we get rid of them permanently, someone else will come.”

Rae sighed. “Someone who’s not a Stooge. Maybe we should ask Kemp what’s going on.”