Endless Fear (14 page)

“
What is it?” Spencer asked, spying her frightened expression.

To his complete surprise, instead of a verbal reply, she leaned against him, snaked her arm around his back and clutched him at the side. Then pulling him to her as she might a young child needing assistance, she guided him downward. When he protested, she said, “Shhhh. You’ll be all right this time. I’ll keep you safe.”

The dazed look in her eyes and the sing song in her voice alarmed him. It was like talking to a zombie, he thought, as his voice raised a notch. “April, what’s going on?”

Without answering, she led him on, careful to secure each shallow step before proceeding to the next.

“
April, what’s wrong with you? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Chapter Eight

Inside April’s head, time had shifted backward twelve years to the fateful afternoon of her mother’s death. To her, Lily was about to descend the treacherous basement steps. But this day, she would protect her mother, hold her securely, and deliver her safely to the bottom of the stairs.

April’s tightening hold on his middle dismayed Spencer as readily as his inability to get through to her. Resignedly, he wrapped his arm about her and let himself be led down the narrow attic stairwell in cumbersome fashion. However, the second they were in the hallway, he ground to a halt, refusing to budge.

She blinked and looked around. The fog of confusion lifted, but any hope of relief drowned in a backwash of familiar guilt. Lily was still dead.

Spencer could see the clouds abandon her eyes. His immovable stance had penetrated her stupor as surely as his raised voice had failed.

Befuddled, April released her awkward grip on Spencer and stepped out of his embrace. She didn’t recall leaving the attic, much less arriving in the upstairs hall. Reading his equally perplexed expression, she detected an underlying trace of worry.

He caught her gently by both upper arms. “Are you all right now?”

“
N-now?” The blood in her veins flowed icy cold.
A blackout.
It was the only explanation for the lost minutes. Although she’d never before experienced one, Dr. Merritt had warned her that unless she could remember her mother’s fall and recall it at will, she would be susceptible to them.

Spencer could see she was as frightened and confused as he felt. Had she suffered some sort of relapse? God, if he’d in any way caused this, he’d never forgive himself. Guilt and concern twisted his gut tighter than a sailor’s knot, and the only thing he could think of to ease her distress was humor.

“
You know what?” His hold on her freed as his hands flailed the air for emphasis. “I finally understand how old lady Flannigan felt when I dragged her through four lanes of traffic to the opposite side of the street she didn’t want to cross, in order to earn my Boy Scout merit badge.”

Somehow, he managed to look adorable and funny and vulnerable all at the same time. The tension inside April spilled out in a burst of laughter. “I remember that. Mrs. Flannigan was so mad she insisted your scout master take the badge back after it had been awarded to you.”

He chuckled. “He did, too. Resourcefulness called for better manners in his book.”

She laughed again. “I’m sorry I did something to rouse such an unpleasant memory.”

The helpless look on her face nearly undid him. Spencer pulled April into his arms, held her trembling body securely to his own, and laid his chin atop her silken hair. “Don’t apologize. It does a guy good to occasionally be reminded of his shortcomings.”

Shortcomings? At this moment none of his mattered. For all the questions he must surely want to ask, the fact he hadn’t voiced a single one endeared him to her all the more. She clung to him as much from gratitude as from sheer panic, finding in his embrace a measure of comfort that otherwise eluded her.

The feel of April’s body molded to his taxed Spencer’s willpower to the limit. A frustrated sigh slipped from his lips. Hell! Why did everything have to be so complicated? Holding the woman he loved in his arms should be a joyful experience, instead of one that left his soul in shreds.

Concentrating on the soothing beat of Spencer’s heart, the comforting caress of his hands on her back, April gave free rein to her thoughts. As she understood it, in order to protect her from an incident too painful to deal with, her brain had tucked the memory of it away in a sort of subconscious closet. One with a swinging door. Any unaccountable thing, at any unaccountable time, might bump against the hinge and pop open that door, setting loose a barrage of weird reactions—usually a reenactment, such as had just occurred.

A shiver arced through her. She felt Spencer’s arms tighten, but willed herself to relax. The problem wasn’t unsolvable. According to Nancy, the underlying cause was the helplessness experienced during the traumatic event. An “If only I’d done this or that” feeling caused the victim to relive the incident again and again, in an effort to change the outcome. Getting her memory back would give her the power to deal with it.

Sensing the return of her composure, Spencer eased his hold on her. He tilted her chin and gazed into her eyes, noting a trace of wariness remained. “Aren’t you getting tired of listening to my stomach growl?”

Despite a lingering disquiet, she did feel better. She grinned. “Now that you mention it….”

Determination roared through his veins.
He’d be damned if she’d suffer another
incident like this. As soon as everyone had gone to bed that night, he’d recover those infernal poems and destroy them.
“Come on then. I think I could eat a bear.”

She grimaced. “Ugh! And to think, I was hoping for soup and a sandwich. First, though, I need to clean up. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

* * * *

April assessed her appearance in the bathroom mirror. Her face was unnaturally pale, but the ordeal had left her more determined than ever to break through her memory blockage, using whatever means were at her disposal. One ride on the reenactment merry-go-round was enough to last her a lifetime. She wanted off that carousel and off now.

A determined urgency ushered her back to the attic. Within minutes, she’d recovered the two sheets of paper from their envelope, tucked them into her jeans pocket and taken her place at the kitchen table.

Acknowledging her arrival with a nod of his head. Spencer wondered at the twin dots of color on April’s cheeks. When he’d left her in the hallway, she’d looked downright pale. Probably rouge, he decided, giving his attention to his food, before Thane or anyone else noticed his undue interest in April.

During lunch, she caught Spencer looking at her. The feeling he knew what she’d done grew with every bite of sandwich, every sip of soup, as though the incriminating pages were somehow visible through her heavy denim pants. Yet, why she felt guilty about taking the poems was beyond her. She hadn’t made him any promises, and she wasn’t the one with the affair to hide.

From across the table, she caught a glimpse of him. His hair was appealingly disheveled and his white sweatshirt now sported a dab of tomato soup in precisely the same spot where she’d so recently listened to his heart.

The sudden lump in her throat was unrelated to food. Perhaps if she’d inherited some of her mother’s worldliness it wouldn’t matter to her that Spencer and Lily had been lovers. But she hadn’t an ounce of sophistication in her, and it did matter. Terribly.

* * * *

An hour after lunch, she spotted Aunt March outdoors. Alone. Quickly donning her red parka, April left the house via the laundry room. The crisp air was a refreshing change after the stuffiness of the attic. She made her way to the vegetable garden at the side of the house and came upon her aunt gazing at the mulched mounds that would sprout anew in the spring.

The muted crunch of the Nike’s on the gravelly ground brought the elderly woman turning around. Her aunt peered down at her through half-closed lids, squinted against the harsh sunlight. “What do you want?”

Standing with her broad backside arched against the mild breeze, her aunt seemed more a part of the bleak setting than a separate and vital entity. She’d always been a tall woman, well over six feet, and still retained much of that lofty stature, which at the moment intimidated the poise out of April. “I…uh…I….”

“
Well, spit it out, girl. I don’t have all afternoon to play
Charades.”

The woman was as ornery as the tenacious seedlings lying dormant beneath the winterized earth, but April knew if she voiced her opinion, this interview would end before it started. Clenching her fists inside her coat pockets, she regarded her aunt with a level gaze. “I want to ask you some questions about my mother.”

Surprise was apparent in March’s lifted brows. “Like what, for instance?”

Realizing her aunt would immediately recognize and call her on any subterfuge, April cut to the chase. “I know there was no love lost between you and my mother. And I don’t remember much affection between my parents, either.”

“
Anyone in the household could tell you that. Why come to me?”

Butterflies collided in her stomach. “Because I suspect you’re the only one with the nerve to tell me the truth.”

April could have sworn a glint of respect registered in her aunt’s steely blue eyes.

“
Most people think it’s rude to be frank. Which is why I prefer my garden to most people.”

Encouraged, April dug her hand into her pants pocket and caught hold of the envelope. She extracted the two papers in question. “Quite by chance, I happened on these poems. They appear to have been written to Lily by a young man. Would you know who?”

The elderly woman eyed the envelope and then April. “Where’d you get these?”

“
From a trunk in the attic.”

Scowling, March pulled her reading glasses from her cardigan pocket and studied the pages.

The sudden urge to leave before her aunt confirmed the name of the poet, befell April. She shifted anxiously from one foot to the other, attempting to check the cowardly impulse.

After what seemed an interminable time, the gruff voice sounded. “Umph. Can’t say I recognize the hand….”

Surely, March would know the twins’ writing. Hope cultivated the valley of April’s heart. Perhaps, she’d leaped to the wrong conclusion; perhaps the author was someone more obvious. “It seemed to me that mother was constantly entertaining. Do you suppose the man could possibly have been the husband of one of her friends?”

March peered down at her from over the top of her half moon glasses. The tiniest bit of pity touched the widened expression. “You asked for the truth, so I won’t mince words.”

The breath slid out of April and her lungs refused to pull in more.

“
Your mother was what was termed a floozy in my day, but self-preservation was her bread and butter. She thrived on the company those parties afforded. Can’t imagine she’d risk offending any of her so-called friends by acting on advances one of their husbands made.”

April let herself inhale, but the clear oxygen felt as fortifying as smog.

Pulling off the glasses, March continued, “Besides, women with Lily’s terror of growing old seek out the young ones. Supposed to make ‘em
feel
young by osmosis or some such folderol.” Handing back the poems, her aunt returned her glasses to the sweater pocket. “Noooo, you’d have better luck looking for the author of that drivel among the maintenance men your father employed after Jesse died. Say, there’s an idea. Maybe Jesse wrote them. The prose is crude enough.”

“
What?”

“
Good, the idea shocks you. Now take my advice and destroy that garbage before someone’s hurt by the damn things. You can’t change the past, but you can let it be.”

Let it be?
That was something she couldn’t do, April thought heading into the house. Not if she intended to get her memory back.

The only other person she felt comfortable approaching on the subject was Helga. However, the bluntness she’d used with March wouldn’t work for the housekeeper. This called for a subtle opening. As a self-proclaimed fan of Lily’s, Helga might consider it disloyal to indulge in the kind of gossip April wanted to hear.

After a brief search, she came across Helga in the living room. Although the housekeeper was one hundred percent American, born and bred, she might’ve been plucked from the pages of the Farmer’s Daughter.

Watching her apply spray polish and a cloth to the coffee and end tables prompted the memory of other times she’d seen Helga clean this room. Back then, waxing the wide pine tables, fluffing the deep cushioned white chintz furniture, or rubbing down the Dutch blue porcelain pieces which had once graced this room, she looked more like one envisioned the mistress of this oversized hunting lodge to look than had the actual one. Now, she looked as inappropriate as the furnishings.