Wild Heart (27 page)

In the bedroom, he stripped off his wet towel and put on the clothes she had brought him: dark trousers made out of some soft material; a silky white shirt; a loose, knitted jacket he thought was called a sweater. She had bought pajamas, too, and slippers, the soft leather kind Philip wore. In the long mirror on the wardrobe door, he shook his head at himself, amazed. He really looked normal. Like a regular person.

"You look wonderful" was the first thing Sydney said. She was sitting on the sofa with her legs folded under her skirt, the newspaper in her lap. She was still beautiful, but now she was the one who looked tired. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes. What day is it?"

"It's still Monday," she said, laughing.

So it was late, not early. Now that he knew, the sky through the window looked like nothing but an evening sky, pale as a pearl overhead, fading to pink on the edges.

"I've called down for dinner."

"How?" He imagined her standing at the top of a flight of stairs, shouting out what she wanted to eat.

"There's a house telephone on every floor, by the elevator. It rings at the desk, and you just tell them what you want."

"Gosh," he said. She laughed again, and he knew it was because he was talking like Sam. "That's damned amazing," he added, but now he only sounded like Philip. He looked forward to the day when he knew enough to sound like himself.

"I bought the afternoon paper." She moved it to her side and gestured at the sofa, wanting him to sit next to her. He did. "You smell good." She looked away after she said that, turning pink again. He ran his hand over his slicked-back hair, feeling shy, too. "How did you get this?" She lifted her hand and almost but not quite touched the bruise on his cheek. His bath had turned it darker and even more colorful.

"It doesn't hurt."

"How did it happen?"

"At the zoo. A man hit me with a stick."

She stared at him. She started to say something, but changed her mind and sighed.

He looked down—and saw a picture of himself on the front page of the newspaper. "Oh, God," he whispered. "Oh, no."

"No, this is good, Michael. Really, it's
better
that they printed this photo."

He didn't agree. It was the one they had taken the day after O'Fallon shot him. He looked crazy, really dangerous, and the wildness in his eyes he knew was fear, but to anyone else it would look like cruelty. He turned his head away, not wanting to see it any longer. "What do they say about me?" he asked, although he didn't want to know that, either.

"Nothing they didn't say yesterday or the day before."

"Where I've been, there weren't any newspapers," he reminded her. "You might as well tell me."

"They just talk about how much it'll cost to replace the animals that were lost or destroyed, what animals they recaptured. Security measures they plan to take in the future. That sort of thing. And how the search for you has been unsuccessful so far. Michael. . ."

"Yes?"

"Do you want to talk about this? About what happened?"

"Did they get the wolves back?"

"What?"

"You said they recaptured some of the animals. Did they get the wolves?"

She looked down at the paper, then back at him. "I don't think so. It doesn't say anything about wolves."

Then he had done one thing right, he thought, staring straight ahead, rubbing his hands over the knees of his new pants. Out of all the trouble he had brought down on the people he loved, that was the one good thing.

"Do you . . ."

"No. I don't think I want to talk about it right now."

She nodded, and they fell silent. He was glad when, a few minutes later, a waiter came in with their dinner.

They ate it while they watched the sun go down outside their living room window. Neither one of them said much. He wanted to ask her why she was quiet, and if she was sorry she had come here with him. But he was still so tired, and he didn't think he was ready to hear the answer.

"Come and look out," he invited her when dinner was over, opening the window wider. "It's nice when the people go home. Quiet." Sydney came and stood beside him, but she didn't lean against the sill and look down with him. "This is not the world's busiest corner," he said, remembering what Sam had told him. "The world's busiest corner is State Street and Madison. This is State and Monroe."

"Very good." She laughed. "But you can see Madison from here."

"Where?"

"Over there." She pointed without moving. "One block north."

"You don't like heights," he said, remembering.

"Not much. I don't know why—no one else in the family is like this."

"I don't mind heights like this," he said, gesturing to the window. "What I don't like is when they're
moving."
She gave a pretend shudder, and he knew she was thinking of the Ferris wheel.

They were silent again until she said, "Summer's almost over. It's still hot, but you can tell. It's something in the air."

"It's because the days are getting shorter. The birds don't even sing the same songs."

She sighed.

"Sydney ..."

"Mm?"

"Are you sorry we came here?"

"No."

"Are you afraid?"

"A little. Not right now,"

The red sky warmed the pale skin of her cheek and made it look soft as a flower petal. He wanted to touch her, but he didn't dare. Things weren't quite the same between them in this place. She was nervous-—so was he. He couldn't be sure what she wanted. If there was going to be touching, she would have to be the one who started it.

"I'm tired again," he said truthfully. "Every time I eat, I get tired. I think I'd like to go to sleep again. If you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind."

"Excuse me," he said formally.

" 'Night, Michael."

"Good night."

In the bedroom, he put on the blue striped pajamas she had bought him. He wouldn't have done it for anyone else—they looked ridiculous, they served no purpose he could see, and he was pretty sure he wasn't going to be able to sleep in them—but Sydney had given them to him, so he wanted to wear them.

Lying in bed, half asleep, it occurred to him to wonder where she would sleep. Right here, with him? He hoped so. He would love to lie beside Sydney in this big soft bed. But there was a couch in the living room; maybe she would sleep there. Maybe
he
should sleep there. Should he get up and ask? She was more likely to sleep here, though, if he didn't say anything. He would just pretend he had never thought about it. See what happened. Anything might happen.

He drifted off, hoping it would happen soon.

* * * * *

While she ran water in the tub, while she bathed, while she dried herself and put on her nightgown, Sydney thought about where she ought to sleep. It was no trivial decision; in a way, everything depended on it.

This intimacy they were sharing—taking baths in the same tub, for instance—excited and scared her at the same time, because she knew where it was leading. Probably leading. The question was, did Michael? Five days ago she had told him it was wrong, that they could not be together. Being a man without guile, he had taken her at her word. But things had changed since then—
she
had changed—although he didn't know it. How could he? She hadn't gotten up the courage to tell him. So far, she hadn't even been brave enough to show him.

She finished cleaning her teeth and brushing her hair and wandered into the bedroom. He had left the light on. For her? She crept closer, so she could look at him. He slept curled up on his side; his arms and legs folded in as if to protect his body; and even though he was deeply asleep, there was still a kind of vigilance in his posture, an alertness, as if the line for him between sleep and wake-fulness was razor-thin.

Slowly, carefully, she sank down onto the edge of the mattress. Sleep had sculpted his dark hair into a comical-looking crest, like a cardinal's. She smoothed it with her fingertips, watching his eyelids flicker as if he were dreaming. How beautiful he was. Everything about him pleased her.

She yawned. She was tired, too. She hadn't slept a wink last night, and not much the night before. Silly to sleep on the sofa when there was this nice bed. They were both exhausted, and they were just going to sleep here, after all.

Michael shifted then, slowly uncurling from the tight ball and straightening out onto his back. Leaving plenty of room for her. If that wasn't an invitation, she didn't know what was.

She put out the light and lay down beside him, drawing the covers up over both of them and wriggling pleas-urably in the warm place he had just left. This was so nice. She moved over a couple of inches so their arms could touch. She could smell his pajamas, that cottony, store-bought smell of brand-new clothes. She thought of Spencer, his solid, reassuring presence beside her every night in their bed. She had had that for only a year—long enough to be sure that nobody should have to go without it.

It was wrong to sleep alone, she decided, her mind beginning to drift. Aunt Estelle slept alone every night. No wonder she was miserable most of the time. People were supposed to find each other. It was nature's way . . . and she was where she was supposed to be, where she belonged. ...

Hugging herself, she rolled toward Michael. She fell asleep with her knees touching his thigh and her forehead pressing against his shoulder, breathing in the fresh, linty smell of his new pajamas.

* * * * *

"As soon as you remembered it wasn't a shipwreck, Michael, Mr. Higgins stopped looking among the lists of drownings in the Great Lakes." Sydney leaned forward over the breakfast table, so the morning sun wouldn't shine in her eyes. "He started concentrating on hunting, trapping, and fishing expeditions, limiting the area to southern Ontario. He did find a MacNeil, who accidentally shot himself to death on a camping trip near Rainy Lake in 1876, but the other circumstances didn't fit— there were no drownings, and no little boy in his party."

Michael nodded, listening intently, letting the forgotten cup of chocolate in his hand turn cold.

"So then Higgins started looking into pleasure excursions, vacation tours of the area around Echo Bay—where they found you. Nothing. But when he widened the search to the east, toward Sudbury and Georgian Bay, his luck turned." She crossed her arms on the table and leaned closer, feeling his excitement and letting it fuel hers. "Do you recognize the name MacDurmott?"

His eyes, burning on hers, dimmed for only a second, then snapped back into focus. He whispered, "My uncle."

"Yes. Duncan MacDurmott—"

"And Aunt Kate."

"Yes. They were lost, and so was their guide, a man named Hastee."

He squeezed his eyes shut, then shook his head. He couldn't remember the guide.

"Everyone thought you drowned, too. In the record, it lists 'Duncan MacDurmott, his wife Katherine, and their nephew, Michael MacNeil, younger of Auldearn.' "

He pushed back his chair and walked to the window, his body blocking out the yellow light.

"He's cabled your parents in Invergordon, and now we're just waiting for them to respond. Maybe they already have. I'll call Philip in a little while and find out. Michael? What are you thinking?" He didn't answer. She stood up. He had put on his clothes, but she was still in her nightgown and robe—a bold move, she had thought this morning, occasioned by the waiter arriving with their breakfast much sooner than she'd expected. "Surely you don't still think they sent you away. This proves they didn't. You were on a trip with your uncle and aunt."

When he kept silent, she sidled around the table and went to him. "When they find out you're alive, they'll be so happy. A miracle, they'll think." She put her hand on his shoulder and made him turn so she could see his face. "What is it?"

"There was something they said that I heard, Sydney. I wasn't supposed to hear it. I don't remember all the words, but I think ... I think they were glad I was going away."

"Oh, no."

He shut his eyes tight, trying to remember. " 'Peace and quiet'—my father said that, and then my mother laughed. They wanted me gone. But I can't remember ..." He opened his eyes, and they were full of sorrow and confusion. "I can't remember what I did wrong." She put her arms around him. "It's all right. It was so long ago. But I wanted you to know—that they might not think it's a miracle."

"Then they don't deserve you," she whispered fiercely. She drew his head down and kissed him. And then again.

The first kiss was for comfort, because he was her dear friend and he hurt. The second was for pleasure. She took her time, softening his mouth with hers, listening to his breathing change. She didn't think he was thinking about his parents anymore. Now that the time had finally come, she couldn't get over how calm she was. Calm and sure.

Looking into his eyes, she pulled his shirt out of the back of his trousers, slowly, deliberately, so she could slide her hands up and touch his bare skin—and so there could be no doubt in his mind about her intentions. Ah, smooth. Soft and sun-warmed; thin, delicate skin over the small bumps of his spine, the subtle quiver of rock-hard muscles. "Michael," she whispered. "The last time we did this I spoiled it. I said it was wrong, but I was the one who was wrong."