Skin Tight (40 page)

“It was Collins,
wasn’t it?” Mia asked the question as they pulled off the highway, exiting into the Minnesota neighborhood that was every bit as faded suburban as Søren had described.

It had taken a while to convince him of the wisdom of this plan and then longer to persuade him they shouldn’t wait. He was a little reluctant to leave Beulah, but Mia knew that was just an excuse. She had developed a great fondness for the lady and was grateful that Beulah had offered Søren enough comfort to keep him from doing something drastic in the days when he’d thought Mia was dead.

Today she read fierce tension in the line of his shoulders. He still wasn’t convinced this was a good idea, but he was willing to try, for her. They’d talked about what they might do, going forward. With his myriad skills, he could pretend his way into almost any job, but he didn’t want to lie anymore. She’d suggested he turn his talents toward helping people, and he was mulling the idea over. Nothing so formal as a private investigator but more of a troubleshooter, solving problems that fell outside everyone else’s purview.

Money wasn’t an issue, but she didn’t think he would enjoy sitting idle any more than she would. They both thrived on challenge. Hell, maybe she’d handle the business end. God knew, she had the contacts.

He flashed her an appreciative look. “When did you know?”

“About two states ago. I’ve been crunching the numbers in my head and going over all the data. He’s the only one who makes sense.”

“That’s why he didn’t want to hire you,” he said. “The man knew you’d find out, sooner or later.”

“So, not a racist, then.”

“No, just a convenient pretense for a white man.”

She grinned. “Funny. What are we going to do about it?”

Søren made the turn, heading into a quiet neighborhood. They had to be getting close now. “I’m inclined to let him rob them blind and then take off for the islands. It will slow the Foundation’s ability to resume their research, if nothing else.”

A chill coursed through her. “So you don’t think we stopped them for good.”

His hands tightened on the wheel. “They’re like the hydra. You cut off one head and two more grow in its place. That probably wasn’t even the only lab, love. Just the only one I could find.”

“That’s . . . beyond horrible.” She watched him in silence for a few moments, wondering if he wanted to continue the search.

But he seemed to guess her thoughts without even looking at her. “I’m done. My life is with you now. Whatever we make of it.”

Her heart warmed and steadied. The man loved her enough to live. Given the way he’d been only a short year ago, that seemed miraculous.

He angled the car onto a tree-lined drive. Dirty snow lay on the ground, mounded up by the curb. It wasn’t pretty, but she could tell by his expression that they had arrived. Søren parked the car on the street, and she followed his gaze to the house with the red and white gingham curtains.

“That’s the kitchen,” he said. “I can see my mom in there.”

“Baking,” she guessed.

“Probably. It’s that time of year.”

A few weeks before Christmas—it was the perfect time for a family reunion. How much would it take before they believed her? Would they cry?

“Did they know about your ability?” she asked.

“Not really. It only affected them in small ways before—”

Before Lexie’s accident. Before he drove his car into a wall.

“It’s my turn,” she said then, gazing at the house where he had spent his formative years.

“I’m sorry?”

“You gave the last quote at dinner. We’ve been a bit busy since.”

He half smiled. “A bit. Is this a game we’re going to play forever?”

“Would you like to?”

“Yes,” he said gravely. “Please.”

“Then we will. Here’s your quote: ‘It will not change now/ After so many years;/ Life has not broken it/ With parting or tears;/ Death will not alter it,/ It will live on/ In all my songs for you/ When I am gone.’ ”

“Sara Teasdale.” There was no doubt in him, no hesitation.

“You’re sure.”

“Positive. The poem is ‘It Will Not Change.’ ” Søren took her hand, sober and focused as only he could be. When he leveled that look on her, she felt like the only woman in the world. “I bought a collection of her poetry, after . . .”

“Why?”

“I wanted to feel closer to you. I wanted to love what you loved, if I couldn’t be with you.”

Her smile frayed around the edges, tears swelling.
It will not change. Death will not alter it.

“Then you know how I feel and why it is so important that we do this.”

“I do.”

Mia exhaled slowly. “Well, we can’t sit here all afternoon. Let’s go.”

She slid from the Infiniti and rounded the front. He got out less eagerly, weighed down with the memory of other failures. In his mind, this was a futile endeavor and she could never make his family believe. Mia knew he’d come to the door more than once and tried to tell them. For him, this was a nightmare, an unwanted affirmation of his ghost life. As she took his hand, she felt it trembling.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked hoarsely. “I don’t want them hurt. They’ve grieved. Accepted my loss.”

“And they shouldn’t have. You’re here. Right here. Watching your mother through the glass. Hell, you missed her so much you went out and found a surrogate. She loves you, Søren. Trust me when I say, this is the kind of miracle a mother prays for.”

Not letting his fear cloud her certainty, Mia led him up the icy walk. A bright, festive holly wreath hung on the red front door. She rang the bell.

After a moment, a plump, gray-haired woman answered the door. Her eyes were bright as a summer sky, cheeks creased with smiling. She wore a polite, puzzled look. “Yes?” Her voice carried the faintest accent, despite her years in the U.S.

“Mrs. Frost,” Mia said. “There’s someone here you need to meet.”

“I don’t understand. Who are you?”

“May we come in?”

It took nearly an hour of endless question and answer. At one point, Mia refused to leave when the older woman demanded she go. Her determination to give his family back to him would not yield, even in the face of Mrs. Frost’s grief. The tears didn’t move her, but she was lucky the other woman didn’t call the police.

“No,” Mrs. Frost said. “You’re a madwoman. I don’t know what you hope to achieve by tormenting me with this impostor, but my son is dead.”

“Is he?”

Søren made a small sound of protest. Judging by the tension in him, it seemed he was ready to call it a hopeless cause and go. Mia refused to give up.

An angry sheen lit Mrs. Frost’s eyes. “If this is my son, he would know. What happened when we went on vacation when he was ten.”

Mia glanced at Søren, who answered quietly, “We took a road trip. We were supposed to see the Grand Canyon, but Grete was whining about feeling sick, driving everyone crazy. She eventually puked down my dad’s back, and he ran the car into a ditch. We never got further than the Minnesota state line.”

The other woman rubbed her eyes as if awakening from a terrible dream. “Søren,” she whispered. “Can it be you? We never told
anyone
that story. Your father was too embarrassed. Was it . . . It was a mistake? It was not really you in that car?”

That seemed the simplest explanation, so he nodded, and then his mother swept him into her arms, sobbing. At length, she demanded, “
Jer skidt djævel
, why did you not call us? Why did you not come
home
?”

There was no accounting for those lost years, so Mia said softly, “He couldn’t remember where he belonged before now.”

“Is this true? You had . . . something wrong in your brain?”

“Yes,” he said, arms coming around his mother slowly. “I did. After Lexie died, I wasn’t the same man. I forgot . . . so many things.”

Pain flared in his mother’s face at the mention of her grandchild, but for her, it was an old loss, and she was too happy to grieve long. “Your father will not believe this. Elle and Grete will be overjoyed! I have prayed and prayed. Something in me, it said you were not truly gone, and that if I just believed hard enough, you would come home.” Tears slipped down her cheeks. “I have an apple strudel on the stove and fresh coffee. You need to eat. Come.” She took a step back and wiped her eyes. “This is your young lady?” She inspected Mia head to toe. “As she brought you here, it goes without saying, I approve.”

He wore a disbelieving smile as he trailed his mother into the kitchen. Mia took a moment to gaze around, her throat tight. The Christmas tree threatened to burst through the ceiling, and the ornaments didn’t match. Five different kinds of tinsel had been used to decorate it, and clearly, judging by the concentration of icicles on the lowest branches, childish hands had helped. That meant he had nieces or nephews. God, he was going to be so thrilled.

Remembering Lexie, the pleasure might be bittersweet at first, but he was too good with children to divorce himself from them entirely. And who knew what the future might hold? Tearful laughter came from the other room. She knew she needed to give them a few minutes.

So Mia stood, breathing the place in. There was warmth here, such glorious warmth. As Søren had promised, the house smelled of cinnamon and apples, nutmeg and allspice. It smelled of home. After all this time, they had
both
come home.

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Coming January 2011
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All the animals
were gone.

Stolen, Zeke guessed. Or he hoped so, at least. He didn’t like to think they might’ve wandered off and died. At one point, he had some chickens and a cow. He’d planted what he could tend and harvest by himself; he’d never been able to afford laborers, not even the migrant kind. He grew most of what he ate. So he’d never had much money—just enough to pay taxes and keep the lights on. It was a simple life, but it had suited him well enough.

But he’d been gone a long time—and not by choice—so the farm carried a desolate air, the land bleak with winter. Standing in the drive, he had a clear view of the dead fields and the pine and oak forest that framed them. The earth still showed the last furrows he’d dug, and the rotten harvest he hadn’t been here to bring in.

He couldn’t see the road, but he heard vehicles passing now and then. The detail unsettled him. Zeke knew when a car had a loose muffler, what engines needed the timing adjusted, and which ones could use a change of spark plugs. The surety made him sick because it wasn’t right. With a faint sigh, he started toward the steps.

The house, in all its Depression Era glory, had seen better days. Posts supported a sagging porch, which had been charcoal gray, but the months of neglect and a hot, dry summer had left it looking worse than ever. It was lucky nobody had broken in—not that there was anything worth stealing. Maybe they’d even scouted the place through the windows and come to that conclusion themselves. A few panes were cracked—vandals, most likely, or just bored kids. Those repairs would keep.

His shoes crunched on loose gravel as he went up the drive. He’d walked the last two miles, after being dropped off by a friendly truck driver. The man hadn’t done anything to set off the prickly way Zeke felt about sharing the cab with him, but he hadn’t been able to stop watching him out of the corner of his eye, every muscle tensed. Every time the guy moved, Zeke felt like defending his territory. Stupid, considering he’d occupied the passenger seat in an eighteen-wheeler that didn’t belong to him.

With a tired glance, he took in the filthy gutters and the patchy roof. He didn’t like to think about how long it had taken him to get home. No wonder things were in such a mess. The place required regular upkeep and six months ago, he’d put things off because he needed to finish the planting. If he didn’t, then he didn’t eat, come winter. It was just that simple.

Too clearly, he remembered going to a bar over in Akerville with a friend. A local band he liked had been playing and he’d had a beer or two while they ran through their sets. When he came out for some fresh air during the intermission, two men had grabbed him. Everything went dark, and when he woke up, it felt like a nightmare—only it had no end. Just pain.

But he was here now. He’d escaped, and he had to forget, or he’d go nuts. Zeke pushed the past from his mind.

The spare key was still buried in a plastic bag to the side of the steps. He knocked it against the post, and chips of graying paint flaked away along with the loose dirt. Zeke dug out the key and let himself into the house. It smelled musty, felt damp, and was beyond cold. If he’d taken any longer, the pipes might have froze.

There was no power, of course, and he needed money before he could get it turned back on. Same with the phone. At least he’d never had cable, so one less thing to miss while he tried to put the pieces back together.

In the kitchen, it smelled worse than musty. In the twilight, he located a box of matches and lit some candles. Everything in the refrigerator had to be tossed. Though he was exhausted—and starving—he found a garbage bag in the cupboard and pulled all the rotten stuff out. He fought the urge to hurl it out the window in a burst of rage.

Control, he told himself. If he started yielding to those impulses, it would lead down a slippery slope. This he knew. If he wanted to live in the human world, his instincts couldn’t rule him. He hadn’t eaten in the last twelve hours, and it was a miracle he’d made it back to the farm with no money in his pocket. Hitchhiking was dangerous, but he hadn’t had much choice. Though he’d stolen the shoes and clothing, he’d refused to take any cash. He’d just needed to get out of the institutional garb or he would never have found anyone willing to give him a ride. Three kind souls had gotten him where he needed to go, and he didn’t even know their names.