The Widow's Walk (28 page)

Chapter 39

Mike had become accustomed to plenty of space in the middle. Blankets, not his wife, kept him warm. He might never feel the heat of desire again, but life without bad dreams or apparitions was peaceful.

He’d seen none of Elisabeth’s blank death stare since the night at the gazebo, only Liz’s spark of life, of determination, convincing him she would follow through. But he’d be blamed for forcing her to sell the Barrett Inn, to give up the business she’d worked so hard to develop, and put Mae and Kevin out. Why did he feel this need to punish her?

Liz went straight into the bathroom. She’d languish in the tub, exfoliating with a loofah, running her hands over her body, making him wish he was in there with her, helping. Climbing out, dripping, glistening, toweling off, one leg on the tub rim, showing him the way to her, while she massaged that delicious citrus body lotion in, powdered herself. He wouldn’t be there when she turned her back, to get the spots she couldn’t reach, to make love on the bathroom rug like they’d once fantasized.

She was doing her part to honor her part of the bargain to leave him in peace. The bathrobe hem fell to the floor, and she had the belt wrapped around her twice trying unsuccessfully to hitch it up. The sleeves were rolled, but still fell over her hands like sorcerer’s garb. In another time and place, this would be funny.

He opened his eyes a crack. The dresser drawer scrunched open. She grabbed a nightgown before tiptoeing back into the bathroom. She fiddled, doing God only knows what. The light flicked off, and she came out in a loose fitting tee shirt. The curve of her breasts and two nipples peeked through, taunted him. He knew what else lay beneath that shapeless, very unsexy garment. Everything tonight was the opposite of what it was supposed to be.

Like a naughty child, he spied through slits while she stared out the window then rearranged a few things on her nightstand, looked for her glasses, turned pages, trying not to make noise but, of course, she dropped a magazine onto the floor with a thud.

Reassured he hadn’t awakened, she stared over the top of the shutters as clouds gathered in the sky, blocking out the light. She slid into bed, rubbed lotion into her feet. The nightgown rose to the tops of her winter white thighs, enticing him.

Liz extended her hand as if to stroke his face, then thought better of it. Her shoulders shook as she cried, yet only an occasional sniff betrayed the silent release.

Guilt needled him. He was pretending to be asleep while wanting nothing more than to hold Liz as tight as he could, and release years of tears and rage. If he reached for her, she would come to him; desire had oozed out of her since she’d arrived.

Liz clicked off the light. Tears glistened on her cheeks. He forced himself to lie still, wanting to grab her, kiss her, fuck her, yes fuck her, punish her, tame her, claim her, possess her. But Jared would never do that, nor would Mike. They were too passive, too timid, too gentlemanly.

Her breathing slowed, deepened. He craved the feel of her heartbeat against his chest. The only measure of relief for Jared’s perpetual anguish threatening to boil over was the aching, throbbing erection Mike feared he’d never have again.

He stroked Liz’s arm. As he drew closer, her foot brushed down his leg and settled onto the top of his foot as if he was a rung on a ladder helping her climb out of an abyss. He loved when she did that.

The warmth of her body, the softness of her skin, and the aroma of her body lotion conjured a longing, which he only had to act upon to fulfill. No he wasn’t ready for that. Mike drifted to sleep.

Jared found Elisabeth on the porch. Damp curls hung over her neck. He’d just bathed to remove the grime from working the gardens all day. Katherine had left a pitcher of lemonade on the table. Jared drained his glass in one gulp. Elisabeth sipped, but left her glass, half full, on the tray.

The tartness lingered on his tongue. As he drew next to her, the lavender scent she always wore made him sneeze. He’d been waiting for a private moment to kiss her, lead her upstairs. But she was distraught tonight. It wouldn’t be fair or proper to take advantage of her. He walked away.

Don’t leave her alone. Go back! The dress she wore was the one I found her wearing the next morning–dead on the beach. I burned it after the burial, right on top of her grave.

Mike’s eyes opened, and he took breaths to get his heartbeat to slow down. The ghost had followed him! Liz lay on her back, arms folded. For a breathless moment, Mike waited to see her chest rise. Even after it did, his own breaths were short, labored, his chest hurt, his stomach clenched.

The citrus scent made his dry mouth water. Mike craved lemonade, a second chance to put things right. A whiff of lavender spread over the room–the same stale scent the on that infernal green dress.
Make her forget Edward.
Act this time. Do not let your wife die.

Fury boiled for allowing her such freedoms and free rein, and at her for taking it, abusing it. He dragged Liz toward him. Her face registered surprise, eyes wide, darting, confused. He didn’t wait, didn’t explain.

“I won’t leave you alone. I won’t let you hurt yourself, me, everyone else again.” Anger, not tenderness, propelled him. The need to dominate, not love, fueled his lust.

“Mike . . .”

He covered her mouth, snuffed out her words, tangled her tongue with his. She didn’t resist. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him, kissed him back. The submission infuriated him–he was in charge!

Mike climbed on top, pulled her nightgown up and ran his hands over Liz’s body, frantic, overexcited. She whimpered as he pinched her breasts and nipples, bit her neck. That aroused him further. He pushed her legs apart with his.

Her readiness, receptiveness drove him. He thrust like a crazed dog, the sensation of enveloping her, swallowing her, controlling her wrapped itself around the physical pleasures of being hard, being inside her.

Make her forget, yes, make her forget everyone, everything. She was where he wanted her, under him, and she couldn’t get away. He didn’t care if she was in pain, he didn’t care about anything except the pleasure of control, revenge, punishment.

Liz called out. Her muscles tightened, drew him further into her. Already engorged to the point of bursting, he shrieked and released years of despair, fury, anguish. He wasn’t ready to stop, wasn’t ready for it to end and kept going even after he was emptied of semen, and all emotion.

The ghost still struggled to feel something, feel anything. Jared needed Elisabeth to feel it, too. He pounded, fucked, devoid of the emotion, meaning, he’d been deprived of for so long, but it was all he had, all he could hope for.

Liz squirmed but couldn’t get out from under. She wrapped her legs around Mike, grabbed his bum and sucked him in deeper, if that was possible. “Oh, God, please just like that! Don’t stop.”

She was enjoying this! He was behaving like a bull in a stud farm, and she was taking it, savoring it.

Liz grabbed his head and gazed into his eyes. “Look at me, Mike.” She connected with him, not the guy who’d let his dick take over for his brain. Her eyes rolled as she climaxed, her breaths came short, sharp.

Mike’s full weight sunk onto her limp form. He was hard, still hard, and she was soft, wet, welcoming.

Her lips brushed his, her fingertips traced his back and chest, all the while staring–the gaze that draws you in so deep you know what she’s thinking, feeling. He hadn’t looked at his wife, really seen her like this, for a long time.

Both vestigial spirits, the one trapped inside her, and the frustrated, vengeful specter that had been deprived of this through no fault of his own, had fallen into their own post coital stupor.

He was like a car engine being rebuilt from the inside out. Cleansed, dirty rocker arms and battery terminals scraped clean, fresh oil, a tank of high test gas, just waiting for new bumpers, side panels, and an expert paint job.

Mike was ready to give up–at his age it had been a stretch to even consider a second round. The moment he relaxed, gave in, he dropped off the cliff a second time.

Liz welcomed him despite the frantic, almost violent domination. She sank into darkness, even with her eyes wide open. Elisabeth accepted Jared’s fury as a requisite punishment for what she’d done, finally able to make amends for what she’d deprived him of all those years ago.

He thrust, she accepted. He bit, she nipped. He smothered her with his body, his mouth, his weight. Un-afraid because death robs it all, Elisabeth was as close to coming back to life as she would ever be, could ever be. Guttural, feral, insistent they were so linked, body, mind, soul, it was impossible to distinguish who was who, what belonged to whom, or in what time they were in.

Liz screamed. Mike held her close. Whether imagined or real, lightning flashed, the room spun, a void opened. Elisabeth dissipated like sparks of electricity, stunned out of her endless loop of misery, propelled somewhere else. Scattered flashes remained, vestigial memories glimmering from a dark place, like stars.

She knew, somehow, that Jared had succeeded in breaking out, taking Elisabeth with him to a better place. Now could they be alone, together?

Tears poured out of his eyes and every pore, bathing him and Liz, washing away the anguish, the anger, the regrets, the misgivings. Jared’s presence had vanished along with the fog, the distraction.

Mike shifted to the side, so she could breathe. He brushed the tangle of hair off her face. “I . . . I’m sorry, Liz. I don’t know what happened to me.”

She languished underneath him. “Jared needed to release that.”

He tingled all over as every inch of his skin reconnected with hers. Her toes traced his legs from his thigh to his feet; her fingers raked his dampened hair. The scent of lavender dissipated, replaced by the smell of lemonade and his own sweat.

After so much time, they were too close. “I’m not fit to be near you.” He pulled out, pulled away.

“Please, don’t go.” She tightened her arms around his back. Her eyelashes brushed his chest, a gentle tickle, a tease.

He dragged himself up and out of bed. “They left us.”

“I hope so.” She smiled, a helpless, sad, half-hearted attempt and joined him.

His lips brushed hers. “It’s going to work out. You’ll see.”

She let him lead the way into the bathroom. Steam from the shower coated the mirrors, the tile floor was slick. They stepped into the tub together, and Mike drew the curtain behind them. Hot water cascaded over them, washing away not only the remnants of their amorous encounters, but the unseen grime and residue of the years.

He worked shampoo into a lather, massaging her scalp.

“Oh, that’s so relaxing.” After rinsing, she reciprocated.

The old hot water heater gave out before they did. Mike turned off the tap. “We need a bigger tank.”

“Yeah, you know how I love a hot bath.” She wrapped a towel around her body, then fashioned a turban around her head.

“I have a couple of eggs and some bread. How about French toast?” He dried off, savoring the humid warmth in the tiny bathroom. “Okay.” A draft blew in when she pulled the door open. “Here.” She unearthed his robe from under the foot of the bed and burrowed in her dresser looking for one of hers.

Suddenly shy, she retrieved the linens on the floor and crumpled to the side of the mattress. “I’ll make the bed.” She pulled on a pitiful summer chemise.

“I never did make you that breakfast in bed I promised that first night we spent together. Remember?” The happy memory knocked a few bricks from the wall he’d built.

“What about the day Eddie was born?”

“Yeah, but we weren’t alone.” Hardly, well with him, Mae, the midwife, the nurse, the baby, and the ghosts. “Wait for me up here.” He kissed her on the cheek.

There wasn’t much in the house, but he wasn’t going to ruin this by running out to the store. Thank goodness for that smidge of maple syrup in the back of the refrigerator. No orange juice, but the powdered sugar was still soft, the cinnamon smelled okay.

Mike looked around the tiny, cramped kitchen. They’d have to bring the entire house back to life. He hadn’t bought furniture or rugs, not even towels. Re-decorating, making Eddie a real room–that would keep her busy.

She’d do it, of course, and it would be beautiful. But every time she looked out the window and saw the Barrett Inn through the pines, her heart would break. In a few years, she’d hate him. What would life be like without Mae, bustling, shopping, cooking, and Kevin, doing whatever the hell needed to be done without being asked? He loved this house, but all the happiness was a memory in his mind alone. For everyone else, it would be a symbol of loss, of giving up, of selling out.

Mike flipped the bread onto the plates and sprinkled the sugar and cinnamon over it. He coaxed the microwave to work long enough to warm the syrup and poured tea, one cup got two spoons of sugar just like she liked it, his straight up, black and bitter, like whatever mean spirit inside him was giving the orders.

He loaded the tray and gathered the hem of the bathrobe into one hand so he didn’t trip and lose the whole lot. By the time he got to the top of the stairs, he only knew one thing for sure: they couldn’t sell the Barrett Inn. Everything else would have to wait until after dinner.