I hear the hangers sliding as you rifle through your closet, searching and considering options. I leave the bed, leaning a hand heavily into the mattress when I realize my legs are weak. You do that to me for reasons physical and far more profound than flesh.
Slipping on a red silk kimono, I belt it around my waist and start toward the stairs. I’m halfway down when the doorbell rings and gives me a start.
“I’ll get it,” I call up to you. “Take your time.”
Instantly vigilant, I descend in a rush, dipping my head around the corner for a split second to peek through the door’s inset glass. Surprise visitors have an entirely different connotation for us than for anyone else. And if someone poses a threat, they’ll have to get through me to get to you.
Paused on the final step, I scrutinize the mental picture I took with a glance. An imposing man stands on the porch with an enormous bouquet of red roses in his large, scarred hands. He is not as tall as you, but he’s over six feet. Possessing the shoulders of a linebacker, he’s tamed his sandy-blond hair into a military cut and keeps his eyes hidden behind mirrored aviator sunglasses. His jaw is sharply square. His attire of a black T-shirt with black dress slacks makes it hard to mistake him for anything other than a bodyguard. If it’s meant for the bouquet to serve as a false front, it’s terribly deficient.
I curse the fact that I’m inadequately dressed. I’m also growing increasingly wet between the thighs as the evidence of your pleasure yields to gravity. All around, the situation is less than ideal. I’m not prepared for fight or flight, although I know the man must be yours. Any genuine threat would be cunning enough to catch us unawares.
Padding to the foyer on bare feet, I smile through the glass.
“What a nice surprise!” I say cheerfully, noting the florist delivery van as it pulls away from the curb. “Could you just set those down on the porch, please?”
He does as I ask, then straightens. The sunglasses shield his eyes, making them fully unreadable. “Is Mr. Black available?”
“Do you work for us?” I ask the question despite knowing the answer. Sadly, sometimes it’s more advantageous for a woman to hide her intelligence, and I’ve learned to excel at dissembling.
“Yes, ma”am.”
“I’ll let my husband know you’re waiting. I’d invite you to wait inside, but I’m not dressed for it, as you can see.”
“No problem.”
I watch as he leaves the front porch, his steps silent despite his size and the thick soles of his combat boots. A second, similarly conspicuously dressed fellow appears on the stoop of our guesthouse across the street.
So, we’re under guard here, too. Interestingly, you haven’t mentioned it. Are you keeping people away or just keeping me?
Tightening the tie at my waist, I focus on the delivery. I open the door and softly exclaim my delight. The arrangement is extravagant. The scent of the roses, lavish and sensual, engulfs me. I feel a flutter of joy that you would send me flowers. They’re a lovely, sweet symbol of courtship.
The bouquet is so huge and heavy it takes both of my hands to lift and steady it. Kicking the door shut behind me, I carry the cut-crystal vase to the kitchen island. I take a moment to admire each rose’s perfection; there are at least three dozen. Their color is a deep, luscious crimson, the petals softer than silk. I tug the card free of its stake and open the envelope to pull out the folded paper. The message is printed in a scripted font.
You’re always in my thoughts.
The smile that curves my lips is so wide it’s nearly painful. I set the card aside and reach with both hands to cup the silky petals in my palms. The bell sleeve of my kimono catches the paper and sends it fluttering to the floor. The card separates from its envelope, and as I squat to collect them both, I see the intended recipient’s name. I freeze, arrested by disbelief.
The flowers aren’t from you, and they’re not for me.
I choke back a wrenching sob. I pick up the envelope with shaking fingers, then reach for the card. I fall back to sit on the floor as I reread the message, my legs too weak to support me. It’s cold in the house, like the breath of a ghost, and abruptly dark. The sunny beach outside is another world, a make-believe place of warmth and light.
I don’t know how long I stay there on the cool kitchen tiles. I might have remained there all day, my thoughts racing, if I hadn’t heard you descending the stairs. I don’t want you to find me weak and shaken.
The island acts as an anchor for me to grip as I crawl to my knees, then I grab the lip of the counter to pull myself to my feet.
When I turn away from the bouquet, I nearly run into you.
You loom over me. You’ve dressed in a dark gray T-shirt and faded black jeans. Your closet here is several years old, bought by the man you once were, so the shirt strains around your biceps and the breadth of your chest. I’ve become used to seeing you this way over the past week, but seeing your thirty-two-year-old body in the clothes of your twenty-something self is eerie. I suddenly feel as if I’ve been unchanged all these years, my life uninterrupted, and you are a doppelgänger of the man I love, out of sync with time and me.
“Let me see that.” You take the card and envelope from my nerveless fingers.
I watch your features harden as you read the message first. Your gaze narrows with fury when you see Ivy York’s name. The note is crumpled into a tiny ball in your fist that you drop onto the countertop with disgust.
“Are you okay?” you ask, pulling me into a tight hug.
I sink into your warmth and strength. “I’m fine.”
In hindsight, the red roses are a calling card easily identifiable despite the sender’s chosen anonymity. The knowledge of Ivy York’s name is chilling, but beyond that is the hidden message of the delivery: you’re a target.
You press a kiss to the crown of my head. “I love you. You’re safe with me.”
That you would repeat that sentiment now shakes me to the core. This time, you’re referring to my physical safety, and a tight knot of alertness I’ve long lived with loosens a fraction. Ensuring my safety has always been my responsibility. I’ve learned to protect and defend myself and manage both quite well, but knowing you have my back … well, that’s a gift as precious as the jewels in your safe.
You pull back, stroke my cheek and deliver another blow. “I wasn’t what you needed before. I am now.”
You press your lips to mine, then back away, your jaw tight and your eyes burning with fury. Snatching your keys off the foyer console, you leave by the front door. Through the kitchen’s picture window, I see the security specialist waiting for you on the walkway. You cross the street together and disappear inside the guesthouse.
The sanctuary of your zealous love has transformed my existence. It’s my greatest failure not to have given you the same security.
My past has caught up with me. More, it’s found me in my safe place and endangers you. I turn my gaze to the back of the house, to the patio doors that lead out to the beach. I could go now. Disappear.
The painful prick of a thorn draws my attention to my hands. I don’t remember pulling a bowl out of the cupboard, but one sits beside the vase in front of me, half-filled with petals. Blood wells from a hole in the pad of my thumb and falls onto the lush pile, looking like a drop of morning dew. I have been beheading the roses and placing their wickedly sharp stems aside in a neat pile. The fragrance is hauntingly beautiful, a joyously sensual promise that taunts me with a fantasy not aligned with my reality.
What am I doing? How much time has passed?
I need to shower. Dress. Prepare.
Prepare for what?
The roar of the Range Rover’s powerful engine brings me back to the moment. I watch as you back out of the driveway, then take off down the street. Leaving the roses, I race up the stairs. I’m restless and, for the first time, feeling trapped. I start to untie the sash at my waist. There’s a weekender in the closet. It won’t take me long to pack what I need.
A flash of movement in the periphery of my vision draws my eye to the full-length mirror hanging on the wall … I pause.
My face is bloodless, my eyes bruised black holes. I stare at that reflected haunted woman, then spy the bed behind her. I change the sheets every morning, and you’ve folded the duvet into a neat accordion at the foot and removed the pillowcases. The job of stripping the bed was likely interrupted by your security team’s notification of the delivery. Still, it’s how we work together, meeting halfway. What we are is matchless and precious. We see the best in one another and subsequently strive to better ourselves, to become more than we thought possible even while embracing the parts best hidden from others.
My knees weaken again, and I move to the bed, sinking onto it. My hands fist in the sheets. Your scent is in the air. And our scent.
Everything I want is right here. While my proximity threatens you, it also affords me the best chance of protecting you. And there are promises between us that may not survive being broken. The most crucial question: will you survive if I stay?
Six years have gone, and you are alive and flourishing. Isn’t that a compelling enough argument for my departure?
A heavy sigh deflates my shoulders. You weren’t flourishing, you were successful, and those aren’t the same. The fire inside you had been slowly suffocating, that raging flame unable to breathe as you turned into stone. Another year or two, and it would’ve burned out entirely. That’s why it took so long for us to bridge the gap between us. You were locked away inside yourself, alive without living. I couldn’t reach you.
I can’t do that to you – to us – for any reason, but primarily because I don’t think it would make a difference. I’m with you. Your importance to me is inarguable now.
I shower and pull on a sleek floor-length column of black satin. It hangs from my shoulders by thin straps and dips so low in the back I can’t wear anything beneath it. I can put my makeup on with my eyes closed. Since I wear it every day, it takes mere moments to complete. It’s another layer of armor and another habit instilled in me by my mother.
Once I feel ready to face whatever comes our way, I remake the bed and toss the sheets in the wash. I’m anxious. I feel the need to act, but what can I do?
As I step outside, the slate pavers on the patio feel too hot against my bare feet, but gently warmed sand soon engulfs my toes. The glistening water straight ahead beckons, and I can’t resist the call. The salt breeze caresses my bare back like a phantom lover, and ghostly fingers comb through my hair. I reach the shoreline, the sand turning damp and firm. Waves lap over my feet, coaxing me closer and deeper. Behind me, I feel the pull of the beach house urging my return.
Troubled, I turn and walk to clear my head. You’re safe with your security team, and I’ve never been the one in danger. The air is crisp, the breeze holding aloft seagulls whose raucous cries seem to originate inside me. In the distance, a large ship powers out to a sea spread with glistening points, like millions of dagger tips bobbing in the sapphire waters.
I stop in front of the prettiest house on the shore, which is painted the softest of pinks with a pale gray trim. The upper and lower floors have a balcony and deck the same width and length, creating a covered porch upon which sit two rocking chairs and a wrought iron table with seating for four. A man is sitting at the table, a familiar and beloved figure.
I wave. Ben stands slowly and with difficulty. It pains me to witness his decline, more noticeable because of the yawning gap of time since I last saw him. I run to him.
“Hey, Ben.” I ascend the steps and embrace him. “I’ve missed you.”
He trembles as he hugs me back. “Have you come to take me to heaven, angel?”
I pull back. His face is craggier than before, his eyes deeper set. He’s got his flat cap on, and the gray tweed has darkened with age. He’s shorter now, his back curved into a hunch.
“Now, Ben … I’m a married woman, and you’re too suave to use a line like that.”
“Well, you’re off to take me to the other place, then.” He nods sagely. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Maybe not about you ending up there either, come to think of it. We’ve both enjoyed a sin or two, haven’t we?”
“One or two. Do you mind if I bum a smoke off you and sit awhile?”
He frowns at me. “Angels don’t smoke.”
“How do you know?”
His rheumy eyes peer dubiously at me, but he motions for me to join him at the table. I sit, and he follows suit, watching as I help myself to a cigarette and light it with his lighter. The first inhalation is deep, my eyes closing against the familiar and longed-for head rush.
“Ah, that’s so good. You’re a saint, Ben.”
“Am I?” he queries eagerly.
Opening my eyes, I study him. “You know I’m not dead, right?”
Even though I say it, I’m not sure I believe it. It feels like I’m in a snow globe, trapped in a contrived moment in time.
“They say you are. Drowned in your pretty little boat. It used to worry me, you sailing off alone all the time. It broke my heart when Robby told me you weren’t coming back.”
“Oh, Ben.” I set my hand over his. His knuckles are thick, the age-spotted skin nearly translucent. “I’m sorry.”
“And your poor husband.” He shakes his head. “He worried me, too. I don’t think he slept all the days they searched for you. The night Robby told me, I sat here on the deck and cried, but Kane … That boy walked to the water’s edge and yelled with all his might.”
Oh, my love … You’ve suffered so much because of my weakness for you.
Ben rubs his chin thoughtfully. “It sounded like somethin’ between a wolf’s howl and a banshee scream all twisted together. It was the eeriest thing I ever saw or heard, a man standing under the moon and falling apart that way. Could you hear him up there when he did that? I think he was shouting for you.”
My hand is over my mouth. The pain in my chest feels like a heart attack, and maybe it is. Possibly my heart can’t survive the picture Ben has painted in my mind.
If there’s a part of you that will always hate me for what you’ve endured, I’ll accept that. Anyone who hurts you should pay, including me.
The screen door swings outward with a creak and Ben’s grandson, Robert, steps out. “Oh, my heavens. Lily?”
“Can you see her, too?” Ben asks, alarm on his face.
I notch my cigarette in the ashtray and swipe at my face, knowing my makeup must be a fright from all the tears I’ve shed.
“Hi, Robby.” I stand and hold my arms out to him.
“How are you here?” he asks over my shoulder, hugging me tightly. “Where have you been?”
Through Robert, I can picture Ben as he must’ve once been. He’s about my height and lanky, his face square and earnest. Freckles dance across the bridge of his nose. He’s near my age but looks much younger. Like his grandfather, Robert’s a charmer, the kind of guy who never settles for one girl but is so sweet that there’s never a fuss.
“It’s a long story,” I tell him, resuming my seat and taking another drag on my cigarette. My fingers are trembling, but I feel like I’ve smoked marijuana instead of tobacco. Everything is murky and odd, distant and dreamlike.
“You’re really not dead?” Ben asks, his gaze narrowed.
“I don’t think so.” But they are both looking at me so strangely. “What?”
“Are you back in the house down the beach?”
“Yes, we’re back. We live in the city, but we’re here for now, and we’ll hopefully return often.”
Robert runs a hand through his auburn hair. “I need a drink. Pop?”
“Yes. Me, too.”
He heads inside.
Ben leans back, shaking his head. “If you’re really alive, you should know your house is haunted.”
I pause mid-exhale, smoke trapped in my lungs. “How do you know?”
“We’ve seen you there, Robby and me. It was just Robby at first; he walks the beach more than I do. He saw you through the patio doors, staring at him. I told him it was a trick of the light and grief. He’s carried a torch for you a long time. But then he saw you in the upstairs window a couple of years later.”
He pauses to light a cigarette, exhaling heavily. “I saw you last year. It was dark, and the upstairs light was on. You stood in the window with a glow around your head. Like a halo. It scared the bejesus out of Robby every time, but I felt real peaceful about it. Like everything was going to be okay.”
Robert returns with a tumbler in each hand and a bottle of water under his arm. The door slams shut behind him, and even though it’s a familiar and expected sound, it makes me jump. Filled with anxious energy, I rise to help, taking the water for myself and one of the drinks for Ben, which I place on the table in front of him.
“Whew.” Robert stares at me. “Why’d you cut your hair?”
I crush the end of my cigarette, extinguishing it. “I don’t know.”
“You still had long hair when I saw you last year,” Ben says.
“About that …” I focus on Robert because his mind isn’t yet clouded by age. “Can you tell me more about what you’ve seen?”
He takes a long drink of whiskey, stretching back in his chair. Then he shrugs. “I don’t know what to say. I’ve never told anyone but Pop because it’s crazy.”
“You saw a woman in the house. Why’d you think it was me?”
“She was tall, like you. Thin, like you. I was down by the water, so it wasn’t like she was right in front of me, but she was a knockout, like you.” He shrugs again, clearly embarrassed.
“It was you,” Ben insists. “I’d know you anywhere.”
Your words echo through my mind. I haven’t been back.
“Lily!” The wind carries your voice to me, scattering my roiling thoughts. That you’re shouting for Lily is a soul-rattling shock, as it’s the first time you’ve called me by her name since I woke.
Shoving the chair back, I leap to my feet. I search the beach and see you running. “Kane!”
Your head turns toward me, and you sprint with the astonishing speed and grace I once admired on the basketball court, your feet flying across the sand. Your beautiful face is pale. Your eyes are dark coins, a payment for Charon to ferry you across the River Styx to me, your hell. Guilt settles in my gut. I race to you, meeting you partway. You snatch me up, squeezing so tightly I fear a rib will crack. I welcome the pain.
Your hand thrusts into my hair, anchoring me against you. My feet hover above the sand. You’re quivering violently, and I hold you as tightly as I can, keeping you together. The picture Ben painted of you on the shore wracked by grief is in the forefront of my mind. Coming back to an empty house must have revived that pain in you, and I beg forgiveness.
“I’m sorry,” I tell you, a sob in my throat. “I should’ve left a note.”
“You can’t just leave like that. I need to know where you are.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I gentle you with my hands, stroking your back. “I wasn’t thinking.”
My gaze scans the beach for danger. It frightens me to have you out in the open. The flowers are a taunting revelation that our location is known, as is my recent past. We’re exposed in every way possible, and you are the target.
Ben’s gruff voice calls out, “You didn’t have a wake, boy. She’s trapped in purgatory, held between this life and the next.”
Your chest expands in a shuddering inhale. “I’ll keep holding her tight then, Ben,” you shout back, “so she’ll stay.”