Sand Castles (37 page)

She stood up and cleaned the sand from her hands with quick little swipes as she said briskly, "Would you like me to walk you through the other ninety-nine?"

No, he thought; it was such dangerous terrain. "Granted, yesterday the timing could have been better," he said, admitting the obvious. "Not to mention the place. If I'd been planning ahead, I think I could have come up with a more romantic evening."

"I couldn't," she said instantly.

Before he could respond, she said with a guilty glance at the house, "I have to go back. Zack—I don't know how to explain yesterday—"

"I love you! Does that explain yesterday?"

He hadn't meant to say it—it couldn't help matters—and yet there it was, one more thing to add to her woes. She had brought him full circle, from elaborate lies to premature truth. He wanted to add, "And it's all your fault."

Her cheeks became flushed. Not surprisingly, she looked as if she'd been bushwhacked. She absolutely would not meet his gaze. When at last she did, it was to say with anguish, "I have a casserole that I have to take out!"

And then she hurried away, leaving him to find his way back to his truck around, and not through, the kitchen with the casserole that had to come out.

Alarm or no alarm, Zack weighed the possibility of spending the night in one of the reclining chairs on Wendy's patio, which he had seen was nicely screened from the neighbors. While he could understand why Wendy would want to keep him farther than arm's length, he was hoping that she wouldn't mind keeping him within shouting distance. And if she did mind, so be it. She could call the cops and have him removed.

He picked at the pizza, now cold, that he regarded simply as a way to pass time while he waited for darkness to fall. He might be being overprotective, but the sense of unease that he felt was pervasive. He was too jumpy to continue lolling in the booth of the small downtown pizzeria, so he gave up and went out to his truck to call his sister. It was something constructive that he could do.

"Hey, Zee," he said after she picked up. "So. How do you like your new stairs?"

"What stairs?" she answered, which threw him. "Oh
... that's right. You fixed them. That was so
sweet,
Zack! I just forgot, that's all. I haven't had the chance to use them; I've been busy inside all day."

Confused, he said, "You didn't go to work?"

"Of course not! I have way too much packing to do."

It didn't take Zack as long this time to figure out that his sister had drifted again into that kinder, gentler world that she had fashioned for herself.

Cursing himself for believing that the morning was an aberration, he said softly, "Where exactly are you going, kiddo? I don't think you said."

"Of course I did, Zack; don't you remember? I'm going off to find Jim. I have to help him, to guide him back to reality," she said, speaking in a breathless rush. "There's something wrong with his memory. He didn't even
know
me, Zack. He looked right at me, and he didn't know me. He's very ill, and it's up to me to bring him out of his
... his spell, I guess you could say. It's like Sleeping Beauty, but in reverse. Oh! I forgot to ask, can I borrow your small carry-on bag? It would be just the right size for smuggling Cassie somewhere that might not allow pets."

"Oh, Zina." Zack was preoccupied enough to think,
Not now, not now.

"Well, all right, then," she said coolly. "You don't have to lend it to me, if you think it'll make you an accomplice. Cassie and I can get by perfectly fine on our own."

"No, no, that's not what I meant," he said quickly. "Don't go anywhere yet, okay?" he begged. "I'm on the road, and I'll be home soon. I'll bring the carry-on right over. Just wait for me, okay?"

Her soft laugh was apologetic. "I didn't mean to sound rude, Zack. Of course I'll wait. I haven't even
begun
to sort through my quilts."

He started up the truck and punched in Wendy's number on the cell. By the time she answered, he was on the road, headed for Zina.

She didn't sound angry, just distressed, to be hearing from him again so soon. "This isn't a good time, Zack. I'm getting Ty's things together for him," was her latest excuse.

It didn't offend him at all; he understood that what they had to say couldn't be worked in between dishes and laundry.

He explained very quickly about Zina, and then confessed to his now-abandoned plan to hang around Wendy herself for the night. He could tell that she was touched by that, and it sent a surge of relief and longing through him.

"Just keep the alarm on. Promise me that, would you?"

"Yes, sir," she said, wrapping the words in a smile. "And, Zack?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. Thanks for fussing. It feels
... I don't know. Good."

He wanted to avow his love for her all over again, but he didn't want to risk blowing the moment. She sounded happy just to have him caring what happened. For now, that was enough.

****

Ten o'clock. Wendy sat curled on one of the twin leather love seats in the library with a well-thumbed catalogue of bathroom fixtures on her lap. She was determined to make her choices once and for all, but the variety of offerings was huge and her ability to focus, minuscule. Sighing, she closed the thick catalogue with its bright Post-it tabs. Another day, perhaps.

She went up to the double bank of windows that was flanked by his-and-hers bookcases—one side filled with military history, the other side filled with house and garden publications—and reluctantly closed and locked them, shutting out the cool night breeze.

As she passed the sofa opposite the one in which she'd been reading, she knocked down a book that had been perched on one of its rolled arms:
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.
She looked at the cover drawing of the young hero, who reminded her so much of her son, and suddenly remembered that Ty had wanted to take the book with him on the ferry to
Martha's Vineyard
.

Arguing earlier that the book would be a burden in his backpack and that he probably wouldn't have time to read, Wendy had tried to talk him out of it.
Tyler
had been adamant. And then, like the typical ten-year-old that he was, he'd forgotten to take it, anyway.

She decided to walk the book over to Josh's mother, who could present it to Ty to take or not. The one thing Wendy would not do was offer to run the book upstairs to him herself; her son would die on the spot of mortification.

She strolled down
Bluff Road
, exchanging good-
evenings with an occasional neighbor walking her dog, and breathing in the scent of beach roses and honeysuckle. Yes, she mused, waterfront living had a lot to recommend it. She loved the starry nights and the bracing smell of the ocean—loved even the overripe smell of low tide. She loved the sound of the crickets and the absence of traffic and the sweet-smelling screens of hedges and shrubs.

All of it was easy to love—but home was still home. Eventually, down the road, someday, if she lived that long: Wendy would be in her own house again.

Wendy dropped off the Harry Potter with a few friendly words to Josh's mother, and then she retraced her steps, stopping at one point on the sandy lane simply to take in the sky. It was a moonless night, and infinitely starry. She would have liked to just lie in a chaise longue, counting shooting stars and thinking about words of love, but she had promised Zack that she'd stay safe.

And besides, she was too exhausted even to count the toes on her feet, much less the stars. There had been too many sleepless, restless nights lately, each of them with a different crisis to consume her. Her eyes burned, her heart ached, and her mind was turning to pudding. Maybe that's what it took to be able to sleep. She meant to find out.

She locked the windows and shut off the hall lights, then plodded tiredly into the guest room where she'd set up camp, locking the windows there as well. She was too tired to move all of her things back to the master bedroom; tomorrow was another day. Rejecting her earlier thought of taking a second shower, she fumbled in the dark for her nightgown, the straps of which were somehow tangled on the door hook.

She considered wearing nothing at all—with all of the windows closed, it was bound to be uncomfortably warm
, and she hated central air
—but the thought of having to run out into the street stark naked and yelling, "Help, help!" in an emergency made her feel unusually modest.

Smiling grimly at the success that Zack had had in spooking her, she undressed with her eyes closed, relishing the thought of the sweet oblivion that was soon to come. Sleep, blissful sleep. The blanket and matching matelass
é
coverlet were far too heavy; she pulled them back, flipping them over the iron footboard of the bed and letting them puddle on the needlepoint rug. A sheet tonight would be more than enough.

Her head was inches from the pillow when she realized that she hadn't bothered to brush her teeth.

So what? Who's going to smell your breath?

The tooth fairy, if her mother was right. Wendy made herself get back out of bed, Gracie Ferro's good little girl, and dragged herself out to the bathroom, wondering whether she could put toothpaste on a brush without turning on the light.

She didn't get the chance to find out.

In the bathroom she was grabbed from behind and pinned to a body that felt twice her size, a monster straight out of Grimm's. He loomed over her and around her, he was everywhere that she didn't want him to be, dragging her easily back into the bedroom. It was all happening so fast; her mind was wasting precious seconds in shocked denial.

She shouldn't be surprised, she shouldn't be paralyzed.

Do something,
she told herself.
Scream, shout, resist!
But screaming, that was out; his monster hand was clamped over her mouth as well as her nose. She could scarcely breathe, let alone scream; she was close to a faint.

His arm was massive, flattened against her breast with such force that it hurt. She tried to snap out of it, tried to kick. But she was barefoot, whacking her heel against steel. What were her options? What could she do? She tried to bite; she couldn't move her lips. She tore at his forearms, but her nails were trimmed short.

He threw her on the bed. In the act, he lost his grip over her mouth. She bit down hard. He let out a yelp, then slapped her, making her see stars. She thought about
Tyler
, of how she couldn't have him go through the horror that Zina had, and that gave her a burst of strength almost to match the monster's. She rolled away somehow and landed a vicious kick to his groin, making him howl. It made her truly afraid, afraid enough to scramble off the other side of the bed and run for her life.

But not fast enough. He caught her again and knocked her to the floor, then rolled her over and sat across her belly: a huge, repulsive, terrifying, alien blob of flesh.

She was witless with fear, unable to breathe; he was crushing her.

"That spitfire shit don't work with me;
where'd you think you'd get? Ah,
ow
...
!" Still groaning in pain from her kick, he slapped her again for good measure, then said, "Where is he? That's all I wanted to know, you dumb—"

"I don't know, I don't know," she said, shaking her head. "He left right after you did."

"Bullshit. How will you reach him?"

"Him?"
She snorted weakly, despite her blind fear. "He said he'd call."

"Fine. This is what you tell him when he does. You tell him what happened here. You tell him to call. You tell him I'm, y'know, waiting to hear. Can you do that?"

She nodded. "But—"

"No buts. You know them TV commercials? Just do it."

"He might not call, he might never—"

"What'd I say? Okay? I have to go now," he said in an odd, sing-song voice that she remembered all too well.

He lifted his hand and brought it down: more stars, more than in the lane, and hovering over a far blacker night.

****

By the time the police arrived, Wendy had a plastic bag filled with ice and wrapped in a dish towel planted firmly against her chin. It wasn't vanity that made her want to keep the swelling down, but a sense of outrage at Jim. She had endured her last trauma because of him. The very last
.

While one of the men took her statement, which didn't include any mention of the word "bigamous," the other officer did a quick sweep through the house and over the grounds. Wendy was able to describe the car that she remembered from the night before, although it obviously had been nowhere in sight when she'd re-entered the house. But it had been too dark for her to give any but what she considered a vague description of her assailant.

She had been roughly handled by a man wanting to know where Jim was; that was the situation, simply stated. Wendy found herself feeling actually grateful to the brute that it hadn't gone any further than that.