You Don't Want To Know (13 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: You Don't Want To Know
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The second his hooves hit solid ground, he took off at a dead run toward the stable. Ava gave him his head. She should have felt that same sense of elation as she had earlier, but now her mood had darkened, all of her worries and fears crushing down on her. How wrong she'd been to think she could outrun her problems. Impossible. She knew that.
As they neared the house, she pulled on the reins and glanced up to the window of the unused guest room. The blinds were open even though she remembered seeing them closed earlier.
Graciela was probably just cleaning and left them open.
Still she focused hard and tried to see into the darkened window, but there was no one. Nothing.
Ignoring the lingering feeling that she was being observed by unseen eyes, she rode to the stable and dismounted. Taking the reins in one hand, she unlocked the series of gates that led to the stable door.
At the entrance, she couldn't help but glance over her shoulder, half expecting the rangy cowboy to appear from the trails threading through the woods.
Of course he didn't.
Silently mocking herself, she removed the bridle, saddle, and blanket; then she cooled Jasper down and offered the gelding a special ration of oats. “You deserve it,” she said, reaching under his forelock and scratching his forehead. He snorted, his warm breath dispersing a few remaining oats before he sucked them up through sensitive lips. “Maybe we'll do this again sometime,” she murmured before checking to see that all the horses had water and snapping off the lights.
She'd barely kicked off her boots on the porch and stepped inside the kitchen, cutting toward the main stairs, when she heard her cousin's voice.
“Out riding?”
Damn! She should have used the back steps.
Other than being flat-out rude and pretending not to hear Jewel-Anne, she had to face her cousin.
Her stockinged feet slipping a little, Ava paused at the archway to the den where an old movie was flickering on the television screen, giving off the only light to the small room.
Her cousin was waiting. Eyebrows lifting over the tops of her glasses, Jewel-Anne took in Ava's wet jacket and windblown hair. One of her ever-present dolls was at her side, and her knitting needles clicked rapidly in some kind of weird tempo in her fingers, the variegated shades of rose and pink being knit into something tiny, no doubt another cute little sweater for one of her babies.
Ava yanked the rubber band from her head. “It felt good.”
“To ride? In the rain?”
“Drizzle.” She shook out her braid. “Not really rain.”
Jewel-Anne rolled her eyes, then turned back to the TV. “Same difference.”
Don't get into this argument. Remember: She's an invalid. You have no idea how she feels trapped in that damned chair.
“See anyone out there?” Jewel-Anne asked, almost innocently, and Ava was about to report that she'd run into the ranch hand when she realized her cousin was talking about Noah. When Jewel-Anne turned to look at her again, a beatific smile curved her pale lips, an almost perfect replica of the smile on the doll sitting next to her.
A trick of your imagination.
Nonetheless, her blood ran cold. “No one,” she lied.
“Didn't think so. Oh, here you go, Janey.” Jewel-Anne took the time to rearrange the doll beside her so that Janey's face was turned toward the television where the flickering blue light from the screen cast weird shadows over its lifeless features. Janey sat as if mesmerized by the movie.
“There . . . all better,” Jewel-Anne said to the doll, and began knitting again, her gaze returning to the images on the screen.
Wow,
Ava thought.
This is just weird. Jewel-Anne blames me for the accident that took Kelvin's life and put her in a wheelchair, and this is what she's become.
Ava started for the stairs, but Jewel-Anne's voice chased after her. “I thought maybe you saw Dern again.”
“Again?”
Click, click, click.
Ava retraced her steps as Jewel-Anne added, “He went out riding after you did. I saw him. So did Simon.” She glanced away from the television for just a sec. “Thought Dern might have chased you down.”
Ava refused to rise to the bait, but she had questions. “Do you know anything about him?”
Jewel-Anne thought for a moment, her needles stopping their frantic cadence. “I think Dern got the job through someone Wyatt knew. Like a friend of a friend or something. I don't really know.” She started knitting again.
Clickity click, clickity click.
“Why don't you ask your husband?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“I think he said Dern had worked for a client of his.”
Jewel lifted a shoulder, her smarmy smile in place. “So, there you go.”
“I just wondered which client.”
“Does it matter?” She looked up, her expression perturbed, and before Ava could continue, she said, “Look, if you don't trust Wyatt—”
“You're putting words in my mouth,” she interrupted. “I just thought Dern looked familiar.”
“Familiar? How?”
“I can't really put my finger on it, but I feel like . . . I don't know, that I've met him before . . . or maybe he just reminds me of someone.”
“Maybe you should just ask Dern.” Jewel-Anne blinked. “Unless you're afraid to.”
“Afraid to? Of course not.”
“Didn't think so.” But her smile said differently, and again her long needles started flashing in her small fingers. “I know; you're just confused.”
Ava didn't bother answering. It was useless. The woman was exasperating and seemed to love playing mind games, always trying to goad Ava.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Ava tried to outrun that niggling sense of guilt that had nagged at her ever since the boating accident over four years earlier. While she'd come out of the disaster relatively unscathed, Jewel-Anne had been tossed around the sea like a rag doll, her body battered against the rocks, her spine cracked, and only Wyatt's strength as a swimmer had saved her.
There was a reason the younger woman was bitter.
Ava was never comfortable around her, but she really didn't have the heart to ask her cousin to leave.
“Are you out of your mind?” she'd said the last time Ava had brought up the touchy subject of buying out her cousin. Jewel-Anne had then let that little statement sink in before adding, “And where would I go, huh? Got any ideas? An institution maybe? That would be easier for you, wouldn't it? Not seeing me? Not being reminded.” She'd hit the button on her chair and stormed away, her chair humming along the old hardwood as she'd made her way to the elevator from the morning room.
Wyatt had been in the room and cast a now-you've-done-it glance at his wife, though he'd held his tongue. He, of course, had insisted the handicapped woman stay at the house. Easy for him, as he was gone more than he was here; he didn't have to deal with Jewel-Anne very often and rarely spoke to Demetria, the nosy, dour nurse. The idea was that Demetria would help Jewel-Anne become more independent, but as Ava saw it, the opposite seemed to be coming true.
And just after the accident, Ava hadn't been opposed to having her cousin stay in the house—far from it. Noah was born nearly two months early, only days after Kelvin's death, and his care had been all-consuming for Ava. The baby had been her absolute joy, and so when Jewel-Anne had been released from the hospital, Ava hadn't argued about whether her cousin and nurse could stay at the house. Why not? There was more than enough room. She'd been sleep deprived with the newborn, bereft over her brother's death, and, yes, feeling more than a little guilty for proposing the sailboat trip in the first place, something Jewel-Anne never let her forget.
At first there had been hope that she would recover the use of her legs. Jewel-Anne's condition had never been declared medically permanent. But after nearly five years and no visible improvement, that hope had faded, and Jewel had become a fixture around Neptune's Gate.
Ava tried not to let her cousin get on her nerves, but sometimes Jewel-Anne's attitude made it hard. Truth be told, the girl had simple needs: the freaky dolls; her Elvis collection, some of which were still on vinyl and played on an ancient stereo in Jewel-Anne's room, the one Jacob had hauled down from the attic once his sister had learned it was stowed away there; old movies on television. When Demetria wasn't pushing her charge into occupational and physical therapy, Jewel-Anne pored over newspapers, gossip magazines, and online blogs about celebrities. She was into reality shows and did get out once in a while, insisting on having different colors streaked into her hair every couple of months. She had her hair cut and colored at Tanya's shop on the mainland, where she kept up on the local gossip.
Sometimes, Ava wondered if Jewel-Anne and Tanya's conversation ever included Ava as the topic, but she decided not to worry about it, even though Tanya was known to tweak a story or two to add a little drama to her information. But Tanya was a trustworthy friend, whereas Jewel-Anne was not.
Still, Ava thought as she reached the second floor, it seemed that her cousin used every chance she could to dig at Ava. She wondered if she would ever get over her anger over the sailboat accident, would ever stop placing the blame at Ava's feet.
Probably not, Ava thought with a grimace. Jewel-Anne was forever zipping in and out of places, nearly running into Ava or startling her or just getting on her nerves. She appeared to receive a great sense of satisfaction in irking Ava. Sometimes Jewel-Anne was childlike, almost impish, as if she were no older than eleven, and other times she was calculating and shrewd and adult.
And she was a liar.
Ava knew that for a fact.
CHAPTER 13
“I
just don't see what we have to discuss anymore,” Ava said an hour later. She was seated in the family room near the window, wishing she were outside again. It was nearly dark now; last summer's lush hydrangeas were dark sticks visible through the glass. A fire had been lit, and Dr. McPherson sat in a nearby chair.
“It's been only a couple of days since your last hallucination,” she said in that soft-spoken yet authoritative voice that bugged the hell out of Ava.
“I wasn't hallucinating. I saw him.”
The doctor, not a hair out of place, nodded. “And I hear you've been refusing your medication.”
“Who told you that?”
“Or that you're making a habit of flushing it down the toilet.”
“Is this entire household part of some covert spying operation that I'm not aware of?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Everyone's just concerned.”
“And taking notes, counting pills, reporting back to you . . . or maybe to my husband.” Ava let out a sigh and stared at the fire. “Look, I don't need this anymore.”
“By ‘this' you mean . . . ?”
“These sessions and the medications and all of you observing me like I'm some freak in a sideshow.” She climbed to her feet and warmed the backs of her legs at the fireplace. Somehow it made her feel stronger to stand, to look down at the psychologist who seemed to be the epitome of everything Ava used to be but was now not. Evelyn McPherson's hair was pulled away from her face in a tidy knot and showed off her classic facial features that were as wrinkle-free as her jacket, blouse, and skirt. Dressed in gray, with a scarf of black and pink, her boots, briefcase, and purse all coordinated. Ava tossed a glance at her own reflection in the mirror over the fireplace: zero makeup, hair that was still crinkled from its earlier braids, jeans, and a sweatshirt that was two sizes too big.
She used to look like the psychologist.
Hell, she used to
be
that same kind of woman, but even more so. No kind, patient smiles for Ava Church. Nuh-uh. Not when she was known in financial circles as a ballbuster.
“I heard you went riding today,” the doctor said.
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
“Who told you that?”
The doctor shook her head, and the anger that kept flaring up was white-hot now. “Sorry. I didn't realize it wasn't an authorized horseback ride,” Ava said through gritted teeth.
“I was just concerned.”
And she looked it, with her concerned expression. Ava almost bought into it. Almost.
“I appreciate that you've been trying to help me. But it's over. I'll handle this my way. So, this session and any further ones are over.”
“Denial is one of the signs of—”
“Paranoia? Schizophrenia? Some other kind of -ia? It doesn't matter.”
“Ava.”
“You're not hearing me.” Feeling the heat of the fire against her calves, she took a step closer to the coffee table. “Maybe I am crazy. It's possible.” Before the psychologist could interject, she held up a finger. “But it's my crazy and I'm owning it.”
McPherson's brow furrowed.
“There's nothing more you need to do for me,” Ava said, then glanced out the window to the night beyond, a darkness that was beginning to crawl across the island.
Khloe tapped on the half-open door.
“I hope I'm not disturbing,” she apologized in the doorway as both Ava and Dr. McPherson turned toward the sound, “but the door was ajar . . .” She was actually carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups.
“It's fine, Khloe. We were about finished anyway,” the doctor said calmly.
Not for the first time, Ava felt as if she were in some weird movie out of the fifties where the staff was all in collusion, eavesdropping at doorways, offering tea as a ruse to listen more closely . . .
This was her good friend Khloe, from high school, offering up tea and sharing knowing looks of conspiration with the psychologist.
Bizarre, that's what it was.
Or paranoia? Maybe Dr. McPherson was right . . .
At least Khloe wasn't dressed in a maid's uniform. Slipping into the room in jeans and a sweater, she said, “I thought you might like something before dinner.” After carefully setting the tray on the coffee table and holding the top of the pot in place, Khloe began to pour.
“I'll pass,” Ava said as Evelyn McPherson picked up one of the steaming cups.
“You sure?” Khloe straightened and they met eye-to-eye. Once friends. Now . . .
“You know I don't drink tea.”
Except on occasion with Cheryl, the hypnotist.
“Coffee, yeah. And I used to drink Diet Coke like water. Remember? In high school?”
Khloe arched a brow. “That was a long time ago,” she said as the smell of orange pekoe mingled with the scent of wood smoke. “Did you want a soda? Mom has a case stored in the pantry and I could find some ice.”
“No.” Ava's cold tone stopped Khloe short. Tamping down her temper, Ava added, “I just want to be treated like a normal human being. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” Evelyn said evenly.
“You've never been ‘normal,' Ava,” Khloe said at the same moment.
Ava's lips parted, but the tiniest of smiles crossed Khloe's lips. For a second, Ava saw her as she had been so many years ago, when their biggest problems were getting dates to the prom and figuring out how to get the hell out of Anchorville.
Khloe picked up the tray.
“I just don't want people tiptoeing around me, or coming into my room unannounced, or insisting I have breakfast when I'm not hungry,” Ava said, desperate to be understood. “Just once I'd like to be able to . . . I don't know . . .
sleep in
or something. I don't want anyone worrying whether I've had my orange juice or taken my pill. I just need to be left the hell alone!”
“Ava,” the doctor reproached.
“No, it's okay.” Khloe's gaze held Ava's, and it was as if she were seeing her friend for the first time in a decade. “I get it.”
“Good,” Ava said with feeling.
Khloe nodded, then, as if she realized she was suddenly getting much too personal, too close to the friend she'd once been, she swallowed hard, turned, and walked swiftly from the room.
Ava knew they all had a reason to worry, but she was getting better; she was. And she wasn't going to take any more of those damned meds!
Leaving the doctor still holding her teacup, Ava stalked from the room and headed for the stairs. She caught a glimpse of Khloe's backside as she disappeared through the kitchen door. They'd been great friends in high school. Sure, they'd had the usual spats, and Khloe had taken a while to forgive Ava for dating Mel LeFever for a time. But they'd gotten past it and spent graduation together, though Ava could still recall the night that Khloe had accused her of stealing the one boy she cared about. Of course, everything changed when Khloe and Kelvin had gotten together. Mel LeFever was a distant memory and Khloe had fallen head over heels for Kelvin.
Khloe and Kelvin . . . “Double K” they had called themselves, and Khloe had eagerly accepted an engagement ring from Ava's brother only a few months before his death in the boating accident. Ava had been thrilled for both of them, and then the tragedy struck, and Ava gave birth to Noah and the world was vastly different.
Directly after Kelvin's funeral, a broken Khloe had left Anchorville for a few months, but when she returned, Wyatt hired her as Noah's nanny. At the time, Ava hadn't been sure she needed a nanny at all, and her relationship with Khloe had become strained. Kelvin was gone, and maybe Khloe, after listening to Jewel-Anne's vitriolic rambling about the boat accident being Ava's fault, had pulled away from Ava emotionally. Their relationship wasn't the same. But Ava's protests to Wyatt about Khloe fell on deaf ears.
“It'll be good for her, let her know that she's still a part of the family,” he'd said. They'd been waiting in his car for the ferry: him behind the steering wheel, tapping its rounded top to some rhythm running through his head; her staring through the windshield to the bay from the passenger seat. The sun had been out that day, bright rays sparkling on the water, fishing and pleasure boats dotting the bay. The windows had been down and the breeze had helped cool the warm interior of Wyatt's car, salt air mingling with the new car smell that still lingered.
Noah, strapped into his car seat, had let out a soft coo from the backseat and Ava had reached around to touch his soft cheek. “Hey there, big guy,” she'd whispered, happier than she'd ever been.
“A little help with the baby wouldn't be a bad thing.”
“I think that's the father's job.”
“But his father”—he'd touched the tip of her nose fondly—“is gone a lot. And that's the way it's going to be for a while until I can convince the partners that my time is best spent in Anchorville.”
“Then do it. You're a lawyer. You should be able to present a strong argument.”
Wyatt had laughed, that deep, throaty laugh she'd loved. “Yeah, well, remember, they're attorneys, too.”
“Oh, so they're onto you.”
“Mmmm. Just consider hiring Khloe. The way I see it, it's a win-win for everyone.”
“I don't know. She's not trained.”
“Not professionally, but neither are we.” He'd flashed that damnably boyish grin again and pushed her lightly on her shoulder. “Come on, Ava, she's the oldest of six kids. She was always helping Virginia out growing up, right?”
“But a nanny? Do we need one?”
From behind the wheel of his Mercedes, Wyatt had glanced over at her. “We still need a little time together, alone.” He smiled at her just as the ferry, churning water in its wake, pulled up to the dock. “We could have some fun, you know. Noah's going to need a little brother or sister.”
“Someday,” she agreed, smiling despite her reservations.
“The sooner the better. You and I both know these things take time.” His eyebrows wiggled suggestively. “Maybe we can start tonight?”
“Dreamer,” she'd said, but laughed as he'd put the car into gear and guided the sedan onto the flat deck of the ferry. As they'd ridden to the island, she'd relented.
Within two weeks, Khloe had come to work for them, along with Virginia. Eventually she'd begun dating again and married Simon Prescott, a landscaper who had once worked intelligence and communications in the military, then took a job in Anchorville before landing here on the island. So Simon had moved in with Khloe and things had been steady for a few months.
And then the unthinkable had happened.
At Christmas time, Noah had disappeared.
Everything had changed. Khloe, rock-steady while Ava broke into a million pieces, had somehow graduated from good friend to nanny to caregiver.
Ava had been so bereaved that she hadn't noticed it happening, only knew that she'd spent hours clinging to Khloe and crying, relying on her friend for consolation and care. Wyatt, himself destroyed, hadn't been able to help his wife as she'd tumbled from despair and grief to a darker condition that no one would acknowledge outright but was the start of her hallucinations, her inability to define what was real and what was not.
“Mrs. Garrison?” She was nearly to the top of the stairs when a gruff male voice caught her attention. Turning, she found Austin Dern at the base of the stairs. “I think this is yours.” He was holding her phone in one hand. “You must've dropped it up on the ridge.”
“Oh.” She hadn't even missed it, and as she hurried down the stairs, she thought of the two times she'd dealt with him alone, once in the bay, another time just a step or two from the edge of the cliffs. “Thanks.” She plucked the phone from his fingers and started for the stairs again, then stopped. “You know, I think that considering the fact that you might have saved my life twice, you could call me Ava.”
He frowned as he thought about it, and she tried to ignore that whole sexy cowboy aura that surrounded him. Unshaven jaw, tanned skin from hours outside, crow's feet fanning from his eyes as if he squinted against the sun, long, lean body covered in faded denim and plaid—definitely
not
her type. “If that's what you want,” he agreed.
“I do.” Her gaze touched his, and she realized his eyes were a dark brown and guarded. For a split second she remembered the length of his body pressed close to hers in the cold water. Her nightgown had been molded to her body, showing off every inch of her skin. His arms and hands had been strong, holding her tightly, helping her stay afloat. “Please.”

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