You Don't Want To Know (8 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: You Don't Want To Know
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“I know, but I saw her today in town. She asked about you and so we set it up.” He lifted a shoulder. “Couldn't hurt, now, could it?”
She was surprised that he brought up the psychiatrist. “So you just ran into her?”
“Not really. Once I learned that I'd be away, I called her, met her for coffee, and suggested she spend some time here.”
“She's busy.”
“Not
that
busy,” he disagreed. “Besides, the mainland is just a boat ride away. Turns out, she liked the idea.” His expression turned serious. “She wants to help you, Ava, and she might just be able to if you'd stop fighting her.”
“I don't fight her.”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Just try. Okay?”
When he withdrew his hand, she asked, “Do you think I'm crazy, Wyatt?”
“Confused.”
“Don't slide away from the issue.”
He let out his breath. “I think you need help. Psychiatric help. And so do all the doctors at St. Brendan's. You're the one who wanted to be released, to come back here, to . . . face your demons.” Touching her lightly on the shoulder, he added, “But you can't do it alone, Ava. And no one else here is qualified to help you. Not me or Graciela or Khloe, not even Demetria, though she's a nurse. We just don't know how best to deal with this. But Dr. McPherson does.” His smile was troubled, his eyebrows drawn together. “You have to trust us, Ava. We're all here to help you, but we just can't do it if you don't help yourself. And going to a hypnotist . . . really?”
Her breath caught in her throat. Denial leaped to her lips.
Before she could protest, he reminded her, “You have to remember that Anchorville is a small town. Maybe not as small as Monroe, but small enough.” With a glance at his watch, he swore under his breath, then kissed her forehead. “Got to run. Butch is probably already here.”
“Butch?”
“Johansen,” Wyatt clarified, and Ava's heart sank. “Kelvin's friend. He ferried you back and forth to the island, right?”
“Yes.”
While slipping his arms into his jacket, Wyatt was nodding, as if he already knew the answer. “I called him. Asked him to pick you up and then wait for me once you got home.” Wyatt eyed her speculatively. “He didn't mention it?”
“No.” She shook her head and felt a pang of betrayal.
“Well, he's my ride to the mainland. I thought I'd leave the cruiser here, in case anyone needs it.” Was there just the hint of cruelty in his gaze, a smidgeon of superiority? Or did she imagine it as he found a raincoat in the front closet and grabbed his small bag, just big enough for his computer, toiletries, and a suit.
And then he was gone, the door closing with a soft thud. She peered out the window and saw the
Holy Terror
moored at the marina.
What the hell was that all about?
Why hadn't Butch said anything?
He'd never liked Wyatt, never gone to any lengths to hide it, and yet . . . She clenched her fists, digging her fingernails into her palms.
You're overthinking things. Let it go. Wyatt's your husband. Do NOT second-guess his motives.
But she couldn't help herself.
Wondered if she would ever really trust him again.
Bothered, she took the steps two at a time to her room and once inside, checked to find that the unidentified key she'd discovered in her sweater pocket was still tucked away in the jeans she'd worn yesterday. Made of tarnished metal, the key appeared old, as if it had been fashioned for an ancient door lock. Too big for a trunk or a newer cupboard or cabinet. She tried it on her door, then, because she heard Graciela on the stairs, slipped it into the top drawer of her desk, under some papers, and told herself she'd figure out what door it unlocked later. She had no idea how it had gotten into the pocket, and that, too, was a mystery to be solved.
Maybe it had been a mistake. An oversight.
Yeah, right, like maybe someone slipped his or her key into your pocket . . . as if maybe that someone had been wearing your sweater? Or was hiding it quickly? Or did someone drop it unknowingly?
Into your pocket? Seriously, Ava. Someone meant for you to have it, and at least it's something to do. An action to take.
An action it was high time she did take.
Walking to the window, she caught a glimpse of Wyatt heading toward the marina and flagging down Butch, who, waiting in the
Holy Terror,
waved back.
“Great,” she said under her breath, and chalked off another person she'd allowed into the “Can Be Trusted” column of acquaintances in her life.
Staring through the glass, she watched Wyatt settle into the very seat she'd occupied earlier as the
Holy Terror
headed into the waters of the bay. Ava was left with the unsettling truth that she couldn't trust anyone associated with the island. Worse yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that Wyatt, the man she should trust above all others, wasn't the man she'd thought she'd married.
Then again, was she the girl he'd fallen in love with?
Not a chance, she thought as she caught a glimpse of her ghostlike reflection in the window's watery glass. That girl had died long ago. . . .
Then who the hell are you?
She swallowed hard and felt a rising sense of panic. Somehow, somewhere she'd lost herself. Not that she'd been a sweet innocent when she'd met Wyatt, but in the years since, she had definitely changed. No longer was she the hardheaded, sometimes even ruthless, businesswoman. Okay, maybe she was still hardheaded, but once she'd been athletic and bold, nothing like this shell of a person who stood at the window now.
She placed her hands on the pane, as if trying to grab hold of something of the woman she'd once been. Staring through the pale ghost of her reflection to the surly sea beyond, watching as the boat her husband was aboard grew smaller, she felt a silent rage steal through her blood, a fury at the impotent person she'd become.
“No more,” she whispered, her hand sliding down the glass to clench into a fist. No more weakling crippled by her own fears.
It was time to take control of her life again. If that meant going against all of her “well-intentioned” relatives, then so be it.
It was time to fight back. Hard.
CHAPTER 8
T
he next day, Ava felt stronger, ready to take on the world, a part of her that had been missing surfacing for the first time since she'd been released from the hospital.
If she'd had nightmares during the night, she couldn't remember anything about them this morning, though there was a lingering worry hovering around her brain. She tried to shake it off. Today she wasn't going to let any stupid dream shackle her, remembered or otherwise.
Tossing off the bedcovers, she got to her feet, ignoring the headache pounding at the base of her skull as she showered, then slipped into her favorite robe and cinched the belt around her waist.
With her hair barely towel-dried, she walked to the bedroom window, threw back the curtains, and opened the blinds. Her stomach clenched, anxiety twisting her nerves, but when she stared through the old glass this morning, she didn't see her son standing on the dock. There was no terrifying image of her boy teetering over the dark, swirling water.
“Thank God,” she whispered, one hand still wrapped around the cord of the blinds, her shoulders slumping with sudden, nearly overwhelming relief.
Maybe she was getting better.
This morning as she peered through the window, she saw a rising mist and the shivering fronds of dew-covered ferns. The damp stone pathway split, one branch leading to the private apartment in the basement, the other curving past the garden and toward the closest pasture. It was that walkway that wound around to the side of the house, the one that was just visible from her bedroom. She caught a glimpse of Austin Dern rounding up the horses. Dun, palomino, black, and bay, the animals were shrouded in the thickening fog and seemed to appear, then fade as they followed the tall man out of her range of view toward the stable at the back of the house.
She hurried out of her room, past the stairway and down a short hall to one of the unused guest rooms. Its door stuck a little but finally opened to display a bed that hadn't been slept in since the summer and a side table with books collecting dust. Portraits of her great-grandparents had been hung here years ago, their stern, unsmiling visages glowering down on anyone who stepped across the threshold.
The air inside was still, smelling of dust and disuse, odors that couldn't quite be freshened with the fragrant sachets tucked in the empty bureau drawers. Even the scented candles placed in front of an antique mirror had lost their aromas.
She crossed to the window where sheer curtains draped over blinds that had been closed for months. With a flick of her wrist, she snapped them open and stared through the dirty glass. From her vantage point, Ava viewed the outbuildings located behind the house and the fields of wet grass that sprawled past the fence line to the brush and thickets of fir and hemlock that crawled up the hillside.
Dern was working with the horses near the stable.
Hidden by sheer curtains, she studied the man who had been her rescuer, the man Wyatt had hired, yet had neglected to mention. With broad shoulders and a long stride, Austin Dern seemed comfortable with the horses, as if he'd been around livestock all of his life; the stereotypical Hollywood cowboy wearing disreputable jeans, a beat-up sheepskin jacket, and cowboy boots. In need of a haircut and a shave, he opened a gate and shooed the horses through. The only thing missing from the image was a Stetson and an accompanying drawl.
He looked up then, as if he were suddenly aware of her interest. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted as if a cold breeze had swept over her nape. Again the eerie feeling that he was familiar brushed her soul.
“You're imagining it,” she whispered, then stepped away from the window and told herself she hadn't seen him somewhere in her youth. . . .
She remembered the feel of his strong arms surrounding her, the pressure of his wet body against her as he'd dragged her from the sea.
It all seemed surreal now, as if it had happened to someone else.
Surely, if she'd met him before, she could recall . . . ? From the shadows of the unused room, she watched Dern as he walked into the stable, Rover, a stray shepherd that had just shown up a few years back, at the rancher's heels. For a split second, she thought about trusting him, then quickly cast the thought aside.
No one. You can't trust anyone. Especially not a stranger who'd just shown up and been hired by Wyatt. Nothing is as it seems . . . remember that.
There was no use fantasizing about the newcomer. She knew nothing about him except that he'd saved her.
It bothered her that Wyatt had hired the man without filling her in. Typical!
She dragged her gaze back to the dock where she'd been certain she'd seen her son teetering on the slippery boards, dangerously close to the deep water, the misting fog swirling around him. Her heartbeat accelerated at the memory.
Had it been an hallucination brought on by anxiety? Or had it been a result of those damned pills she'd been prescribed?
She
knew
her son hadn't disappeared on the dock . . . right? So why the morbid fascination with those damned slippery boards jutting into the bay?
What the hell was wrong with her?
Just because the police had suggested Noah fell into the bay didn't mean it was true. Of course not!
Her head began to throb again and she snapped the blinds shut before returning to her room.
Walking into the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face. Over the running water, she heard a quick rap on the door. Sometimes she felt as if her room were Grand Central Station.
“Coming!” Snapping a hand towel from its ring, she dabbed at her face as she stepped into the bedroom and found Graciela letting herself in. “Miss Ava?” she said, her practiced smile intact. “Virginia wants to know if you want breakfast?”
“I'll get something later.”
Graciela's smile fell away. “She says the coffee is ready.”
“Good.” Ava waited.
Graciela didn't budge.
Or take the hint.
“I'll be down in a little bit. I'll grab something then.” Who was the boss here? Still the stubborn maid lingered. Ava tossed the towel onto the foot of her bed. “Is there something else, Graciela?”
“
Si
. . . yes.” She frowned a bit as if reluctant to convey the message.
“What is it?”
“I thought you might want to know that your cell phone's been ringing downstairs.”
“My cell?” Ava glanced quickly around the room for her phone. “I didn't hear it.”
“It's in the main hall, by the door, in your purse.”
“The hall?” Ava's gaze shifted to the chair where she'd always plopped her purse before bed each night. Sure enough, her bag was missing. “Thanks. I'll get it,” she said to the maid, whose returning hint of a smirk suggested that she knew Ava was losing her mind. “Just give Virginia the word about breakfast, okay?” she said as Graciela swept out of the room, the door thudding shut behind her.
Good riddance.
Graciela did nothing wrong and yet there was something about the pretty little maid that got under Ava's skin.
Ava sure as hell didn't remember leaving her purse downstairs. Not that it was a big deal, just another indication that she wasn't thinking clearly and that the holes in her memory now included smaller rips in the seam along with the bigger, gaping tears she couldn't sew back together.
But she was certain, feeling as she did today, that the only way back to being herself was by staying off the medication the doctors had prescribed. All those lousy pills did was dull her, and she had to be clear and mentally focused so that she could find out exactly what had happened to her boy and why she was haunted by visions of him.
Quickly she ditched her robe and dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and loose-knit sweater. She was pushing her head through the neckline when another series of raps against her door preceded Demetria poking her head inside.
“Hey!” Ava said sharply. “I'm getting dressed here.”
“Oh.” The nurse didn't seem the least bit concerned even though she mumbled a lifeless, “Sorry.” She was carrying a small paper cup and a glass of water. “Your pills.”
“Just put them on the nightstand.” Ava pulled her hair out of the neck of her sweater and shook her curls free. “I'll take them later.”
“You know, they really need to be taken on a schedule to keep your med levels even.”
“Let me guess—to avoid any mood swings?”
The nurse's lips pursed a bit. “Precisely,” Demetria agreed.
“And the mood swings are bad because . . . ?”
Demetria regarded her warily. “I assume you remember jumping into the bay the other night? I think it would be a good idea to avoid another life-threatening situation, don't you?”
“I'm better.”
“It's only been—”
“Long enough!” Ava snapped, then tried to rein in her temper. Any signs of volatility would only bolster the nurse's case. “I know I haven't been the most stable person around. So, if I start doing swan dives into the bay again, then
maybe
I'll consider taking the pills. But let's just see how it goes.”
“Dr. McPherson won't be happy.”
“And I live to make her happy,” Ava deadpanned. Demetria was still holding out the damned cup, so she gestured to it. “Don't worry about those. I'll call the doctor and tell her what gives.”
“Couldn't you do that after you take your medication?”
Jewel-Anne's nurse was really getting under her skin, and it was all Ava could do to keep her voice level. “Just leave the pills on the nightstand.”
“Why do you have to make things so difficult?” Demetria burst out, as if she couldn't hold it in any longer.
“I was just thinking the same about you.” She strode by the nurse, bumping her arm to send the pills flying.
“Watch out!” Demetria dropped to her knees and started frantically searching for the meds. “Now look what you've done!”
Ava was already heading down the stairs, her footsteps muted by the soft runner that flowed down the center of the old, wooden steps. She wasn't going to be dragged into an argument this morning. Demetria was one of those self-righteous know-it-alls whom Ava couldn't stomach. Fine for Jewel-Anne, who somehow had manipulated her nurse into believing that Demetria was in charge.
A weird relationship that.
Ava wanted no part of it.
Downstairs she was met with the sounds of Virginia's off-key humming over the sizzle of frying bacon, both emanating from the kitchen while a steady rain beat against the tall windows flanking the massive front door.
Graciela was right: Ava's purse was just where she'd said it would be, tossed carelessly onto a small bench in the foyer. She must've left it there yesterday . . . but she couldn't remember. Deciding it didn't matter, she scooped up the bag and scrounged through the interior to find her cell planted deep in a zippered pocket.
As the scents of warm coffee and crisp bacon caused her stomach to rumble, she unlocked the keypad and scrolled through her messages. All told, she'd missed three calls—two from Tanya and the third only identified as a “private call.” Also, she'd received one text from Tanya:
Give me a call ASAP.
“Okay, okay.” Punching the
RETURN DIAL
button for Tanya's number, she started up the stairs again.
Sharp footsteps caught her attention. “Miss Ava?” Virginia's voice called after her.
Nearly missing a step, she turned and spied the cook just as Tanya answered. “Hey, I wondered if you'd ever get my message! Make that messages! For God's sake, don't you ever check your phone?”
“Hi. Hang on for just a sec, would ya?” Ava said into the cell as the cook, four steps below, stopped dead in her tracks at the base of the stairs.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” Virginia said quickly, eyebrows pulling together as she realized that Ava was talking on the phone. “I didn't realize you were busy.” Backing toward the kitchen, Virginia gestured toward the rear of the house and said softly, “Breakfast is ready, in the morning room.”
Ava was about to argue but rather than get into another debate, she said simply, “I'll be right down,” before mounting the stairs again. Once out of earshot, she turned her attention to her phone conversation. “Sorry, Tanya, everything's happening here at once.”
“NBD.”
No big deal
in Tanya-ese. “I got your message. Sorry that I missed you at the shop. Plumbing issues at the house . . . flooded basement, broken pipe—oh, don't get me started!”
“Sounds bad.”
“It was, in this case the you-know-what was running downhill all right, right into my laundry room . . . Ugh! I shudder just thinking about it, but Al from Al-Wright Plumbing came to the rescue and in a few days, when things dry out, everything will be back to normal. So he says. For now, I have to do all the laundry from home at the shop where I've got the small stack unit. Things could be worse, I suppose.”

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