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“I guess it must be hard for you to grasp that a woman exists who wouldn’t want you close.”
“Jesus, Alison, I’m just trying to get clear on what you want.”
“Don’t take it personally,” she said. “Let’s do what we came to do and leave this place. I don’t want to be here.”
There was a moment when she thought he was going to say something, do something besides pick up the belt and drop it on the counter.
“You’re calling the shots,” he said as he left the room.
She shut the door behind him, wondering why she couldn’t have talked to him in civil terms, why she’d had to be so cutting. And why she was so angry still. The solution was simple. If they had to act like lovers in public, that was one thing, but there was no reason to keep up the pretense in private. She didn’t want sham intimacy from a man who was pretending not to be repulsed by her.
It was five after seven when Alison and Andrew walked out onto the terrace off the living room. The slate deck swept out over the ocean, and in the distance the horizon was as silvery bright as the setting sun.
The terrace was beautiful, almost beyond Alison’s ability to describe. Billowing ferns and banana trees shaded the wrought-iron furniture and the ornamental arches. Fountains splashed from deep pools of mosaic tiles set in swirls of blue and green. But Alison had no idea whether she was supposed to remember it or whether it was part of her mother’s massive renovation.
Only Rebecca was there to greet them, and she seemed flustered as she rushed over. “Julia’s running a little late,” she explained. “Can I get you a pisco sour? We’re having Peruvian food tonight, and the sours are luscious. They’re made with grape brandy and lime juice.”
“Make mine a virgin,” Andrew said.
Rebecca looked surprised, but he didn’t explain.
“Make mine a double,” Alison said, surprising her again.
As Rebecca went over to the bar, she gestured toward a granite-topped sideboard laden with bowls of seviche, colorful salsas and platters of mussels and other seafood. “Help yourself.”
Andrew waited, letting Alison go to the sideboard by herself. They hadn’t spoken two words since their face-off in the bathroom. Silence was the norm in their relationship. She’d even thought of it as a conspiracy of silence, but they rarely fought, and that had put a different edge on things. She had no idea what to expect, but she wasn’t backing down.
She tried a chunk of braised grouper with some spicy salsa that brought tears to her eyes. Luckily, Rebecca returned quickly with a tray of drinks. She served Alison a foamy, pale yellow sour, and then gave Andrew his virgin. The sour tasted like limeade with a donkey’s kick.
“How do you like the terrace?” she asked Alison.
“Breathtaking.” Alison went to admire a graceful iron crane that was taller than she was. “This sculpture in particular. I wonder where my mother found it.”
Rebecca hesitated. A nervous smile surfaced. “Oh, but that piece isn’t actually new. It’s been in the family for years, I believe. It may even be an heirloom.”
Alison gasped. “Oh, of course. I must be conf—Everything’s so different.”
Andrew wandered over and looked at the sculpture from another angle. “Why does it remind me of the iron piece in the foyer?” he said. “Does Julia collect Oriental cranes?”
“Well, yes, she does.” Rebecca set down the tray of drinks and helped herself to one. “Her mother did, too, I believe.”
Alison shook her head, embarrassed. “I should know these things. I still get confused.”
Rebecca’s smile was gently reassuring. “Well, no wonder. It’s amazing you survived such a terrible accident.”
Andrew broke in again, explaining that Alison suffered from a condition called transient amnesia. “But it could all come back to her in time,” he said. “We’re hopeful that it will.”
“Ah, yes, how very convenient.”
The sarcastic comment came from the terrace doors, where Bret Fairmont stood, looking flushed and disheveled. Alison didn’t know if it was a fashion statement or if he’d been in a scuffle, but he looked a mess. His hair was a blond rag mop, and his jacket was off-kilter.
He squinted at her. “My God, look what the tide dragged in. Is it really my long-lost sister? Rebecca, get me a drink. Chop chop!”
Look what the tide dragged in. It was a terrible joke. Delayed shock seemed to paralyze everyone there.
Alison and Andrew said nothing. Bret leaned against the door frame, as if to steady himself. Finally, Rebecca moved, going to the bar to get his drink, which was the last thing he needed.
“You must remember me,” Andrew said. He boldly walked over to shake Bret’s hand. “I’m the guy she married.”
Bret glanced at Andrew’s hand, but didn’t take it.
Andrew slapped Bret’s arm rather vigorously and continued to make conversation. “What did you mean by ‘how convenient’?”
Bret’s eyes took on the gleam of a hungry rat’s. “Oh, nothing, just thinking how convenient it would be to have an unreliable memory.”
Alison brought the sour to her lips, wincing at the sudden pungency of the lime. She could tell by Bret’s behavior that he was drunk, but it was hard to believe anyone would put on such a pathetic display. If she’d had any doubts about the abject hatred she and her brother were supposed to have felt for each other, she could put them to rest. He was an obnoxious boor, and he’d obviously had it in for her since he was old enough to say her name.
What was it he’d called her when they were growing up? Alisuck. How mature.
“I see we’re all here. Isn’t that wonderful!”
Alison turned as her mother walked onto the terrace. She’d changed into a silk Emilio Pucci print in bright pink and turquoise, and her mood seemed to have lightened with it.
“Forgive me for holding things up. Does everyone have a drink?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Bret said.
“You look like you’ve had plenty, Bret,” Julia said sharply. “Sit down and sober up.”
Bret’s bloodshot eyes widened. He looked good and rattled, but got himself to the nearest chair and sat down.
Alison caught the twinkle in Andrew’s eye. Was he thinking the same thing she was? Possibly the dragon lady of Sea Clouds had some redeeming qualities.
“Alison, don’t you look beautiful. I love what you’ve done with your hair.”
Julia sounded pleasantly surprised as she walked straight over to her daughter and embraced her. Alison tried to relax in her mother’s arms, but affection was the last thing she expected after the front door fiasco. She’d worn her hair up, thinking it might make a better impression, and evidently it had.
Clouds of expensive perfume swirled around them as Julia stepped back and clasped Alison’s hands. A smile softened the angles of her face, but Alison’s intuition was working overtime. She could sense the crackling tension. Julia was as anxious as she was.
Alison also caught a whiff of alcohol mixed in with the perfume, and it wasn’t her own drink.
Somehow, just knowing this very formidable woman was nervous allowed her to relax. But it also made her wonder what flaws her mother’s seeming quest for flawlessness might be hiding. She was known in the society pages as a fashion maven, but Alison had never thought of that as a cover until now. The makeup and designer clothing seemed more extreme than before, and she couldn’t shake the notion that Julia Fairmont was slowly transforming herself, whether intentionally or not, into something resembling a department store mannequin.
“Alison isn’t the only who looks beautiful tonight,” Andrew said, coming over to them. He offered his hand, and Julia hesitated only slightly before taking it. She was clearly making a supreme effort to be cordial.
Andrew sounded as if he meant it, and Julia smiled, to Alison’s great relief. Maybe this wasn’t going to be a nightmare, after all. Only Bret hadn’t risen to the occasion. He’d ignored his mother’s time-out and left the chair to storm into the house. Interesting how the rebellious little brother routine made him appear much less sinister.
“Here you are,” Rebecca said, bringing Julia a brandy sour and a plate of assorted appetizers. “Try one of the mussels and see what you think.”
Alison excused herself and walked to the edge of the deck, which overlooked a charming cove of sapphire water, thirty feet below. Beyond that the Pacific stretched like an infinite edge pool. At high tide, the waves crashed thunderously against the rocks, but now all was calm.
Julia came and stood next to her, holding the stem of her glass with perfectly manicured fingers. Her emerald-and-diamond wedding set glowed in the waning light.
“The view doesn’t change,” Alison said, “but this house has. It’s beautiful.”
Julia shrugged as if it was nothing. “I could hardly improve on the view, but the house needed attention. It hadn’t been redecorated since you and Bret were small.”
That would have been over twenty years ago. “I don’t remember,” Alison said, “but I can’t imagine it being more beautiful than this. You’ve preserved the classic lines, but made it look fresh.”
She hoped that was what Julia wanted to hear. She’d begun to understand the plight of Anastasia, who was either a total fake or the rightful heir—and not even she had known which.
“Alison, look what I found.”
Alison turned to see Bret coming toward her, carrying framed family photographs. He had two, which he held up as if for show-and-tell. He seemed to have miraculously sobered up.
“Do you remember where this was taken?” he said, pointing to what looked like an enlarged snapshot of a lighthouse on a lonely promontory. He even turned so the others could see it.
The scene didn’t look remotely familiar to Alison. Andrew was standing by Rebecca, watching the Fairmont family reunion. Alison gave him a covert glance, but he shook his head. He couldn’t help her this time.
“Sorry, I don’t,” she said.
“You don’t?” Bret pretended to be shocked. “Let me guess, transient amnesia? Sounds like a bum with a bad memory.”
Alison didn’t respond. He was baiting her. His eyes gleamed when he was pleased with himself, and they were gleaming now. He’d been suspicious of her since he arrived this evening, but Alison didn’t have it in her to deal with his sniping tonight. Being under attack like this was what she’d feared most.
“Let me see that.” Julia snatched the photograph from Bret, pried off the backing and drew the picture from the frame. She read the date on the back.
“This picture was taken on your trip to the British Isles, Bret. It was the summer you graduated college. I put the date and place on the back when I had it framed.” She glowered at him. “Apologize to your sister. She doesn’t recognize the place because she was never there.”
Bret’s shrug was nonchalant, but Alison realized he’d been trying to pull one over on her. Thank God she hadn’t taken a wild guess. He wasn’t just out to test her. He was trying to trap her.
“Oops, my mistake,” he said. “How about this one? The little prodigy couldn’t possibly forget her big recital, could she?”
Bret held up the other photo. It was of Alison at the baby grand in the living room of this house. It was her sixteenth birthday, and she was probably playing Für Elise, the only piece she’d ever committed to memory.
Alison had the oddest sensation as she stared at the picture. It felt as if the dead places on her face were spreading to the rest of her body, and she was going numb. This really was too much. He wasn’t going to stop until he’d reduced her to rubble.
Julia let out a hiss of frustration. “Bret, your sister nearly died from head trauma, and she didn’t come home to play the piano for your amusement. Now give me that picture and stop badgering her.”
Bret handed over the picture. “I guess you’re right. You never liked her playing, anyway.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“You said it to anyone who would listen. You said it to her, isn’t that right, Alison? Mom never thought you had any talent.”
“Drop it, Bret,” Julia said threateningly.
Bret had some kind of comeback, but Alison wasn’t listening. She slipped around and left them arguing as she went into the living room. She saw the baby grand against the windows of the far wall, and her pulse quickened.
A moment later, she sat down at the piano and stared at the keys. The blood pounding through her heart made her hands shake. Her head buzzed so loudly it blurred her vision. She could barely distinguish black from white.
She placed her hands on the keys, an octave apart. She pressed one key and then another, trying a chord or two, but nothing was coming back to her, nothing at all. She could hear the music playing in her head, but her fingers didn’t know what to do. They couldn’t make the connection.
She closed her eyes a moment, straining to remember, fighting, but her mind was empty. There was no point. She started to get up, and then glanced back at the keyboard. Her hand hit the keys in frustration. The noise jarred her, but her fingers opened and began to move. It didn’t feel as if she was making conscious choices, but something was happening. She hit one wrong note after another. She winced and grimaced and tried again, and gradually it came, one tentative note and then a second. Soon she had a recognizable melody. Für Elise.
She didn’t play it well, but she played it, and when she looked up, the entire family was there, watching her. Julia, Andrew, Rebecca, even Bret. Andrew was the one who started the applause.
6
Alison lay awake in the dark, unable to believe that she was sharing a bed with her husband. He was lying on his back, as quiet as she was, but he wasn’t sleeping, either. It was too still. Not even a breath could be heard. And yet electricity crackled in the space between them. She could almost hear the noise it made.
That was why he hadn’t moved, and neither had she. Not even to roll over and look at the clock. She was afraid to do anything that would force him to speak or in any way have to acknowledge his presence in this bed with her. God forbid they should touch.
Within the veil of their private world, they were separate agents. If anything was holy, it was the distance they’d created between them. They rarely even communicated beyond the necessities of their arrangement… and Alison found it a totally desolate existence.
She had never understood her feelings for him, but tonight it was impossible to deny that she had them. The potent mix included awe, intense curiosity and rampant doubts and fears. She was also attracted to him—what woman wouldn’t be struck by his dark, poetic mop of hair and deep-water eyes? How could she not want to know what his mouth would feel like on hers? But sex was not part of their arrangement, and if that wasn’t entirely satisfactory to her, it should have been. She’d insisted the relationship be platonic. She’d been as adamant about that as he had, but her reasons had probably been different than his.
Of course, she hadn’t anticipated sharing a bed with him, or that he would suddenly turn into the white knight who would protect her from her big, bad family. She was appreciative, and that was the problem. Positive feelings were starting to outweigh the negative ones, which made it hard to keep the feelings in check.
Attracted? Yes. Wildly.
She touched her face and felt the familiar heat creeping up her throat. Thank God it was dark. No one could see this. No one could hear the blood rushing through her heart or see how difficult it was for her to swallow.
No one knew her pathetic little secrets.
They both slept restlessly, and perhaps it was inevitable that they would come into physical contact. Sometime before dawn, Alison brushed his arm with her hand. It was an accident, but he rolled toward her, and their eyes came open at the same time.
She knew instantly what was happening. And by the hitch in his breathing, he did, too. It was the dark of night and no one would know. Maybe they would pretend not to know themselves that they were about to take this further than a touch, much further.
It was dark. A dream. It didn’t count.
He moved over her and she rose toward him. His hand slid beneath her and his mouth came down on hers. She was engulfed by that one act, a kiss. It was softness, warmth and dinner wine. It was their first.
What changed everything was the sigh in his throat. There was no return from that sigh. Was it pleasure or anguish?
His thigh brushed hers. His hand was on her breast. Every touch was new and terrifying. She was torn between conflict and yearnings. She wanted to be taken, possessed. Penetrated. Please.
Her stomach clenched with anticipation. She saw herself raking his flesh with her nails and pulling his hair. She wanted to be the object of his awe, as he was hers. But she didn’t trust him—or anything about the situation they were in. This wasn’t just a kiss in the dark. It was an act of sweet desperation, of surrender, and he already had too much power.
He bent to her again. She could feel the heat of his breath, hear his noisy heartbeat, but somehow, he stopped before their lips met.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
His voice dropped low. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said. “It won’t again.”
He turned and sat on the side of the bed. Alison was dizzy with disappointment. She couldn’t pretend it was anything else. Where did he get that kind of willpower? And who had he been kissing? The woman he married or the one transformed by plastic surgery? She wanted urgently to know, but told herself it was better that they weren’t intimately involved, safer. There was too much conflict and confusion between them.
She was well aware that there were times he couldn’t bring himself to look at her, perhaps like right now. And there were times when she wished he wouldn’t look at her, because he couldn’t hide the suspicion, even revulsion, in his eyes. When had he begun to hate her? she wondered. Had he always felt this way?
