Passion (37 page)

But, no, he couldn’t have let things be so easy. Whenever his father had started a conversation with Why don’t you, Why can’t
you, or Why aren’t you, John had immediately tuned out the rest. He’d known all the variations; he’d heard them practically
since he was a baby. Why don’t you try harder to make the team? Why can’t you make good grades like your sister? Why aren’t
you as popular as your brother? Why won’t you practice, work harder, study more, play less, be nicer, quit arguing, concentrate,
work out, grow up, stop being difficult, act your age, show some sense, quit playing dumb? There were dozens of them—all negative,
all hurtful, all pointing out just what a disappointment he was.

In a perverse way, he supposed, he
had
accepted his father’s challenges. George Smith had wanted his second son to be as talented an athlete as the first; John
had deliberately
cultivated a lack of physical prowess. George had wanted a popular child—a class president, active in clubs, well liked by
students and teachers alike; John had looked for and found his friends among the tough kids, the punks who had little respect
for themselves and none for anyone else. George had wanted a kid to be proud of; John had given him one to be ashamed of.

Today he had accepted Teryl’s challenge.
I don’t know if you can write anything other than your name
. He had about fifteen pages here to prove that he could. It wasn’t the best writing he’d ever done, but it was far from his
worst. Who knew? With a little revising and a little editing, it could turn into the beginning of a new book. He didn’t know
where he would go with it, but that wasn’t unusual. He often didn’t know exactly where a story was headed until he’d done
a tremendous amount of work on it—notes, plots, and hours of thinking. He did know who that unnamed female character would
become, though—knew whom he’d had in mind when he’d begun writing hours ago, knew that Teryl would also recognize her: Liane,
the sister from the Thibodeaux books who interested Teryl far more than the more popular character of Philip.

What would Teryl’s reaction to the pages be? Would she like the writing? Would she recognize the style? Would she be intrigued
by the situation he’d placed her favorite character in? Or would her first thought be to point out to him that he couldn’t
write about someone else’s characters, that the Thibodeauxs belonged to Tremont and were off-limits to him?

Around the corner the back door opened, then closed again with a bang. “Jeez, it’s hot out there,” she said with a sigh when
she came into the kitchen. “I wish summer were over and fall was on the way.”

Reaching to the side, he turned the pad upside down. “How would you ever manage New Orleans if you don’t like hot weather?”

She laid the plastic bag she carried on the table, hung her purse by its strap over the back of the chair, then gave him a
smile as a belated greeting. It was a friendly smile—sweet,
pleasant, nothing more—and it was damned near enough to bring him to his knees. “I think living in New Orleans would be special
enough to make putting up with the heat and humidity worthwhile. If you have to be hot, I can’t imagine a better place to
do it.” As she began unwrapping the two sandwiches, she looked at him again. “Besides, it’s all hypothetical. I’ll probably
never leave Richmond, and even if I do, I’ll certainly never have the kind of money I’d want to live in New Orleans.”

He wanted to contradict her, to inform her that, yes, someday soon—if this ended soon, if he was able to prove his identity
and to do it without getting himself killed—she would have that kind of money. He would see to it.

But those were some mighty big
ifs
.

“Did you call your banker?” she asked as he got two sodas from the refrigerator, then sat down opposite her.

He nodded, but she didn’t say anything. She simply waited for him to elaborate. “I’ll get the statement from him on Wednesday.”

She didn’t look at him as she began unwrapping one of the two sandwiches she’d removed from the bag. “Where is this bank?”

“Denver.”

“Do you plan to go back there when this is over? To Colorado?”

They hadn’t talked much about the future, although he wasn’t surprised that she was thinking about it. Of course, they faced
two totally different futures and with two totally different attitudes. She was looking forward to getting her life back to
normal, to reclaiming her home and her peace of mind, to being left alone to live the way she wanted. She was anticipating
the day he would be gone, the time when she would never have to deal with him again.

He
wasn’t.

And he didn’t think, when that time came, when his life returned to his own sad version of
normal
, that it would happen in Colorado. At the moment, he couldn’t imagine returning to his mountaintop. It had provided exactly
what he needed those years he’d lived there—solitude, a measure of
peace, a few good memories—but not anymore. What he needed in his future would be nowhere to be found—at least, not for him.
He had promised her that he would make things right, and at the top of that list was getting out of her life. After all he’d
put her through, she deserved that and more. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll find some place even more remote. Maybe I’ll buy an
island.”

“And surf all day.”

“And write all night.” He watched her gaze shift to the legal pad. The edges of the pages he’d filled with scenes were ruffled,
a few of the corners bent in crooked triangles. She studied it a moment as she chewed a bite of her sub, but she didn’t ask
what it was. She didn’t ask if she could see it. Part of him was glad because, other than the proposals he’d submitted to
Rebecca and Candace Baker, he’d never shared any part of a work in progress with anyone. It seemed too personal, too intimate—and,
of course, he’d never had anyone to share it with. At the same time, though, he was more than a little sorry that she didn’t
ask. He wanted her to see that he
could
write. He wanted her to know that he was writing Liane’s story, wanted her to know that he was doing it especially for her.
He wanted her to get a little personal, a little intimate.

Even if she did ask, he acknowledged, he would have to say no. Those were possibly the most important pages he had ever written.
They could go a long way toward convincing Teryl that everything he’d told her was true. They could make her believe in him.
Before he gave them to her to read, they needed more work. They had to be polished. They had to be perfect.

“Caribbean or Pacific?” She was looking at him now, the pad and the remarks about writing apparently gone from her mind.

It took him a moment to get his mind back on the subject of islands. “Surfing’s better in the Pacific.” And the Caribbean
was too damned close to New Orleans. It would be too easy to break his promise to her, to just show up there one day, to torment
himself with what he couldn’t have.

“Someplace around Hawaii or farther south?” she asked.

“Farther south. Someplace exotic.”

At that she laughed. “When you’re never traveled outside the southern U.S.,
all
islands seem exotic. Have you ever been in that part of the world?”

He shook his head.

“Then how do you know you’ll like it? How do you know you won’t be bored silly by ocean waves, tropical breezes, and all the
scantily clad native girls?”

“Liking it has nothing to do with it.” Putting distance between himself and all the significant places—and people—in his life
did. Staying away from Janie in Florida, his parents in California, Teryl here or in New Orleans or wherever she settled—those
were the important things.

“Liking it has everything to do with it,” she disagreed. “How can you be happy in a place…” Abruptly, her voice trailed away.
Her cheeks tinged pink, she focused her attention on her lunch.

What was she thinking? That happiness didn’t rank very high in his life and never would? That he’d known so little happiness
that he’d grown used to its absence? For a long time, he
had
been accustomed to it. Over the years he’d found his own substitutes—satisfaction with a well-written book, enjoyment in
a climb up his mountain, relaxation in a summer storm, pleasure in making love, exceptional pleasure in making love with
her
—but he still missed being happy. He missed the overall sense of well-being that came from fitting properly into all the spaces
of your life and sharing it with people you cared about. He missed waking up in the morning and thinking, This is going to
be a good day, instead of, Here’s another day I have to struggle through.

“You adjust,” he said quietly, watching as she slowly brought her gaze back to his. “If you have what you need, you can adapt
even to a place you detest.”

Her voice was just as quiet when she responded. “And what you need is to be Simon Tremont.”

What he needed was
her
. Didn’t she know that yet?

With a shrug, he rose from the table, threw the wrapper from his lunch into the wastebasket, then leaned against the
counter. “Simon is mine. I created him. I have a right to be him.”

She started to speak, then broke off as the phone beside him rang. When she made no move to get up, he answered on the second
ring, and what he heard in response to his greeting immediately drew his attention away from her.

“Teryl Weaver, please. This is Sheriff Logan Cassidy of the Grant County, Colorado, Sheriff’s Department.”

Although he’d spoken to the man on only one occasion, he recognized the voice even without the name. His first reaction was
surprise. He had intended to call the sheriff today, to give him Teryl’s address so the arson reports could be forwarded to
him. Had the sheriff somehow tracked him down? But that was impossible; no one was that good. That meant Cassidy wasn’t initiating
this contact. He was returning a call he had missed presumably earlier in the day. It meant
Teryl
had called
him
. It meant she was checking up on John.

His gaze locked with hers, he replied in an even voice. “Just a minute, Sheriff. I’ll get her.”

She looked startled and guilty as she approached to take the phone. She must have given Cassidy her office number, John presumed,
so he wouldn’t accidentally take the call, so he wouldn’t find out that she was trying to prove or disprove his story. Someone
at the Robertson office must have given him this number.

Taking the phone from him, she wrapped her fingers tightly around it. “Do you mind?”

Why did she want privacy for the call? Because she simply wasn’t comfortable discussing him while he stood there in front
of her? Because she felt guilty for telling him this morning that she trusted him, then going to work and calling the sheriff
to see if he
was
trustworthy? Or because she expected the sheriff to substantiate her suspicions that he was mental? Because she didn’t believe
Cassidy would support anything John had told her. Because she didn’t want to try to hide her doubts and misgivings. Because
she didn’t want to give him cause for anger.

Fighting the same peculiar stubbornness that had so often gotten him into trouble with his father, he started toward the
door. There he looked back. “I want to talk to him when you’re finished.” When she nodded, he walked away, down the hall and
into the living room. He went to stand at the French doors, staring out at flowers wilting under the day’s heat. From the
kitchen, he could hear Teryl’s voice, a soft murmur, the words indistinct.

He wasn’t angry with her for calling Cassidy. Under the circumstances, it was the smart thing to do. But he was a little disappointed.
He’d wanted her to do something no one had done since he was nineteen years old: to have faith in him, to believe him because
he said so, not because someone else did. He’d wanted her to trust him, to take him at his word.

Obviously he was asking for too much. Despite the intimacy they had shared, they were still strangers. He had begun their
relationship with half-truths and clouded motives. He had kidnapped her, had subjected her to nights of misery and terror.
He had made claims too outrageous to believe and had forced her into helping him try to prove them. He was a fool to think
she might ever overlook all that. He was a damned fool to hope she might ever forgive it.

After a while he realized that the hum of her voice had ended. The awareness of that fact brought with it acknowledgment of
another: he was no longer alone in the room. She was standing in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, watching him.
“He’s waiting.”

He followed her back to the kitchen, picking up the phone from the counter. He identified himself before asking, “When do
you think the reports will be ready, Sheriff?”

“I’m waiting on the final report from the state’s investigators. I should have it in a few days. Where do you want it sent?”

“To Richmond, Virginia. The address is…” He glanced at Teryl, standing now next to the table, and she murmured her address,
pausing so he could repeat it to the sheriff.

Cassidy read it back for confirmation, then asked, “Do you want me to go over what I told Ms. Weaver?”

“No, thanks. Teryl can tell me. I appreciate your help, Sheriff.” He hung up, then watched Teryl. Her hands were
gripped tightly around the chair back. “When did you call him?”

“Yesterday afternoon. When we got back from the office.” She raised her head, her posture and manner becoming defensive, but
she didn’t look at him. “I won’t apologize for it.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“There’s so little you’ve told me that can be verified by someone else. I had to ask the sheriff about this.”

“What did he tell you?”

She drew a deep breath. “That you bought the land eleven years ago, that the house was built a year later, that you paid cash
for both. He said most people in the county never knew the place—or you—existed. He said the first time
he
met you was a week and a half ago, when you walked into his office and said your house had been destroyed by an explosion.”