Woman in Black (45 page)

“It was probably for the best. It would only have made it worse for me if I'd known how you felt.” It would have been torture, in fact, since there was nothing either of them could have done about it. “Let's face it, for one reason or another, the timing's never been right. One of us is always leaving.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” he said, looking into her eyes.

“For now.”

He smiled. “For now.”

But she refused to think about that, about whether next time it would be distance or death that separated them.

Outside, there was another, louder crack of thunder, followed by a strobe flash of lightning. The storm broke and rain began sluicing down, pelting the windows with a sound like hurled gravel. She snuggled in closer to Vaughn, resting her head against his shoulder. He smelled of buttered toast and the old flannel shirt he had on, warmed by his skin.

Glancing down at his lap, she noticed the unmistakable bulge of an erection. It sent a pulse of excitement through her, and she was flooded with memories of that night out at the quarry. At the same time, it left her feeling more than a little panicky. Should she comment on it or pretend she hadn't noticed? What was the protocol for a newly separated woman and an old boyfriend who'd just confessed to having been in love with her?

In the end, listening to the rain, she only commented, “It's coming down pretty hard,” while thinking,
That's not the only thing that's hard.

“The invitation's still open if you want to stay over,” he said. Was he serious? she wondered. He seemed to sense her uncertainty, for he put his hand under her chin and tipped her head up to meet his gaze. “What are you afraid of, Abby?” His eyes searched her face. Eyes like the clear waters of the quarry into which she'd dived on that long-ago night.

She didn't know what to tell him. What
was
she afraid of? Falling in love again so soon after her husband's leaving her? Or falling in love with a man who might leave her, too?

“Who says I'm afraid?” She aimed for a flippant tone, but with her breath short, it came out sounding more like a nervous whimper.

Smiling, he ran a finger down one cheek, igniting a trail of fire. In his eyes, she saw the same spark of challenge as on the night that he'd urged her to go swimming out at the quarry. “All right, then, let's put it to the test. Kiss me.”

She didn't protest or pull away, which he must have taken as acquiescence. Holding her face gently cupped in his hands, he brought his lips to hers. It wasn't like when he'd kissed her out on the patio on that otherwise miserable Christmas night; there was nothing tentative or nostalgic about it this time. And if she'd felt any ambivalence then, there was no trace of it now. She twined her arms around his neck, kissing him back as uninhibitedly as she had the first time, as a teenager. She ran her fingers through the bristles of his newly grown-out hair, as soft as the worn flannel of his shirt. Curled against him, her body's curves and angles dovetailing perfectly with his, she felt as if she were coming home in a sense. Any fear she might have felt that they were starting down a road that could only lead to more heartbreak melted way, and with rain pelting down outside and lightning splitting open the sky, she opened herself to Vaughn as she hadn't to another human being in more than twenty-five years. Not even her husband.

Wordlessly they undressed and stretched out on the deep-piled rug in front of the sofa. The sight of Vaughn naked came as both a shock and a revelation. He was no longer the smooth-skinned youth with whom she'd lain at the quarry. She could see the toll that his illness had taken on him in the jutting angles of his frame and in the vivid scar from his biopsy under one arm, where they'd removed one of his lymph nodes. There were old scars, too, from some of his more colorful adventures overseas. Yet somehow all of it, the whole damaged package, only made him more beautiful in her eyes. He was like a wild, battle-scarred beast.

“Where did you get that?” she asked, pausing as she was caressing his thigh to run a finger over a puckered, purplish scar.

“In the Gobi desert, from a puff adder. Let's just say we didn't exactly see eye to eye.” His tone was as matter-of-fact as if the bite had been nothing more than a bee sting. “By the time I made it to the nearest clinic, my leg was so swollen they had to cut me out of my pants.”

“But you didn't let it stop you from going back. You didn't stop doing what you did because you were afraid,” she said, thinking they were alike that way—neither of them was a quitter.

He caught her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing her upturned palm. “No, I didn't. The only thing I've ever been afraid of is dying without having lived.” For Vaughn, she knew, not to have lived to the fullest would have been a fate far worse than death.

In response, she drew him to her so that he was lying on top of her. Locked in an intimate embrace, they moved together as one. In a way, it felt strange making love to another man after so many years of being with just her husband, but in another way, strangely right. As if Vaughn and she were two pieces of a whole that had been torn apart and were now being joined.

“I'm not hurting you, am I?” he whispered in her ear.

“No, why?”

“You're crying.” With his thumb, he brushed a tear from her cheek.

She gave a self-conscious laugh. “Trust me, it's a good thing.”

Then she was holding on to him, holding on as if for dear life. A flicker of the old fear rose in her, and in that instant she felt herself sliding downward, sliding toward that old, dark place … only it wasn't dark anymore; it was warm and inviting. Moments later, she was coming with an abandon that took her by surprise. With other men, even Kent, it had always required a certain degree of conscious effort, but with Vaughn, it felt as natural as taking the next breath. It rolled through her, wave after wave of delicious, mindless sensation, leaving her literally tingling all over, from the top of her head all the way down to her toes.

Afterward, it was several minutes before she could speak or even breathe normally again. She was afraid that if she said anything, anything at all, she would betray her emotions. “I get it,” she said at last. “So all this time you were just pretending to be sick.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, smiling down at her. “That was good for you, was it?”

“Good doesn't begin to cover it.”

He grinned. “For me, too. It's been a while.”

“Well, I can see that you've had lots of practice.”

“I've had my share,” he replied casually.

“Are we talking a cast of thousands here?”

He shrugged, wearing the same enigmatic smile as when she'd previously asked about the women he'd known.

“So what now? Where do we go from here?” She attempted to strike a casual note, but the question was anything but casual.

Vaughn didn't answer.
Not a good sign
, she thought, her heart sinking. Finally, wearing a faintly apologetic look, he replied, “I'll be honest with you, Abby. I've never been very good at this part. The part where you snuggle in bed afterward and whisper sweet nothings in each other's ears. So don't be upset if I'm not telling you what you want to hear.”

“Well, since technically we're not in bed, it looks as if you're off the hook.” She spoke lightly, but she couldn't help feeling let down. She'd hoped for—what? Words of love? It was too soon for that.

Or maybe too late.

“Don't take it personally. It's a guy thing. And, for the record, I meant what I said—that was amazing.” He leaned in to run the tip of his tongue lightly over her lips, as if to capture any lingering sweetness.

Abigail knew she should let it go at that, but something made her ask, “So, was it different than with those other women?”

“Different? Yes, I'd say so.”

“In what way?”

“With you, I feel …” He paused, frowning a little, as if searching for the right words. “I feel like I'm home. Only not the one I grew up in. The kind of home I'd want to be in if I were ever to settle down. Does that make sense?”

She smiled, feeling herself relax. “Perfectly.” Didn't she feel the same way about him?

“So you're not upset with me?”

“No. Why should I be?”

“I don't know. With most women, it seems I only end up disappointing them.”

“I'm not like most women, in case you haven't noticed.”

“Oh, I've noticed, all right.” He ran a hand down the length of her throat and over the curve of one breast, causing her to break out in goose bumps.

Then they were kissing again. Kissing with a hunger that made it seem as if their appetites hadn't been sated just minutes before. After they were done making love for the second time, she drifted off to sleep, along with Vaughn, their entwined bodies keeping them warm. When they awoke, it was almost dark, and rain was still pouring down outside.

Abigail peered at her watch and groaned. “Lord in heaven, how did it get to be this late? Phoebe will be wondering what's keeping me.” Though it was probably wishful thinking on Abigail's part—most of the time her daughter went out of her way to avoid her.

“I wish you could stay the night,” he said, nuzzling her ear.

“I wish I could, too.” She was sorely tempted, but duty called. It was with the greatest reluctance even so that she rose to retrieve her clothes, which were scattered over the sofa and floor. They dressed in silence, neither wanting to break the spell that would send them catapulting back into the real world, with all its attendant concerns and commitments.

“Thanks,” she said when they were saying good-bye at the door.

“For what?” he asked, putting his arms around her and pulling her close.

“For showing me that life doesn't end with divorce.”

“You didn't need me for that. You'd have figured it out eventually.”

They stood that way a minute longer, swaying gently from side to side, as if to music that only they could hear. Then she was out the door, plunging into the wind-whipped rain, holding on to her borrowed umbrella as if for dear life.

It was well
after dark by the time Abigail arrived home. The rain had tapered off some, but it was still coming down in fitful bursts. Cruising along the drive in the taxi she'd caught at the train station, she was relieved to see that the damage from the storm was minimal—some flooded areas and a few tree limbs knocked down here and there. Also, it looked as if the power was out. The house was dark. She didn't even have the porch light, normally on at this hour, to guide her way as she started up the front walk. Otherwise, she would have noticed the bedraggled figure huddled on the stoop.

When she finally spotted it, she came to an abrupt halt, her heart jumping up into her throat. The moon that had been playing hide-and-seek with the clouds broke through just then, revealing the figure to be that of a woman. A woman now rising to her feet and stepping out from the shadows of the portico.

“Señora Armstrong?” She was Hispanic, around Abigail's age, and soaked to the skin from the looks of it. Only her eyes were dry; they burned like hot coals. Her head held high, speaking in slow, careful English, she said, “I am Concepción Delgado.”

16

At first Abigail couldn't move. Finally she unlocked her frozen limbs and, in a remarkably calm voice that betrayed none of her heart's fevered palpitations, said, “Señora Delgado. I've been expecting you. Why don't you come inside?”

The woman hesitated before inclining her head in a stiff-necked nod. By the pale light of the moon edging its way through the fraying cloud cover, Abigail could see that she was shivering, her jaw clenched with the effort to keep her teeth from chattering. Abigail had never seen anyone more pitiful-looking … or more proud. From the look on Señora Delgado's face, it was clear that she wasn't going to be intimidated by Abigail or her fancy house. Nor was she going to be seduced by them.

Abigail's hand shook as she let herself in with her key. She flipped on the light switch just inside the door before remembering that the power was out. No one was home, either. Only Brewster bounded out of the shadows to greet her, barking to let her know he hadn't appreciated being left alone in the dark. She wondered briefly where Phoebe was—she should have been home long before now—before her mind was jerked back to the situation at hand. She led the way down the darkened hallway into the kitchen, where she fumbled in the top drawer of the pine hutch for the box of matches stored there. She found them and lit the candle in the glass holder on the hutch.

The dead girl's mother flared into view. A woman who under ordinary circumstances would have been called handsome but who right now looked like death, pale and shivering, with her short dark hair plastered against her head. Standing in the archway to the kitchen, her wet clothing dripping onto the tile floor, she might have been Persephone poised at the gateway to the underworld.

“Please, sit down. I'll make some cocoa. You look as though you could use some.” Abigail gestured toward the kitchen table, but the woman made no move to sit down. She merely advanced a few steps until she was standing before Abigail, who had to fight the urge to shrink back. It was an effort to maintain her polite, forced smile. “Do you speak English?” she asked, though something told her the problem wasn't a language barrier.

“A little,” Concepción replied in her heavily accented English. From her tone, Abigail got the feeling that “a little” would be more than enough.

“I understand you've come a long way,” Abigail said, in an attempt to make conversation.

The woman nodded once more. “Yes.”

“Perez told me you were coming.”

“Perez,” the woman spat in disgust.

“He also told me what happened.” Abigail forced herself to look the woman squarely in the face, resisting the urge to retreat behind a diffusion of corporate-spun evasions. “I'm so sorry, Señora Delgado. Not just about your daughter, but about … well, you see, I didn't know. It wasn't until afterward that I learned …” Her hands fluttered in a helpless gesture.