Strangers in Paradise (18 page)

“There's nothing strange about that house. I lived there for years and years!” Gene insisted.

“I was thinking about Pierre's ‘treasure.'”

“Confederate bills. Worthless.”

“Yeah, I suppose you're right.” Rex offered Gene his hand. They shook, old friends.

“See you soon.”

“It's a promise,” Gene agreed. Rex stepped out. “It's a good thing I know you're living with her!” Gene called to Rex. “This is an old heart, you know! Not real good with surprises.”

Rex paused, then smiled slowly and waved.

Downstairs he picked up his car, thanked the valet, whistled for Samson—and, as he headed back northward, felt ten times lighter in spirit. So Gene had planned it all, that old fox.

Whatever “it” was. All Rex knew was that he wasn't going to give it all up quite so easily. Not only that, but she needed him, and he sure as hell intended to be there for her.

He drove even faster going back. It should have taken at least two hours, but he made it in less than an hour and a half, whistling as he drove onto the peninsula and approached the house.

His whistle faded on the breeze as he pulled in front of the Brandywine house. Samson panted and whined unhappily. Rex stared, freezing as a whisper of fear snaked its way down his spine.

The house was in total darkness.

Interlude

July 3,
1863
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

H
e wasn't even supposed to be there.

As a lieutenant general in the cavalry, Pierre served under Jeb Stuart. But, returning from his leave of absence, he'd been assigned to Longstreet's division, under Lee. They'd been heading up farther north—toward Harrisburg—but one of the bigwigs had seen in the paper that there were shoes to be had in Gettysburg, and before long the Yanks were coming in from one side and the rebs were pouring in from the other. The first day had gone okay—if one could consider thousands of bodies okay—as a stalemate. Even the second day. But here it was July 3, and the Old Man—Lee—was saying that they were desperate, and desperate times called for some bold and desperate actions.

Pierre, unmounted, was commanding a small force under a temperamental young general called Picket. A. P. Hill was complaining loudly; Longstreet—with more respect for Lee—was taking the situation quietly.

It was suicide. Pierre knew it before they ever started the charge down into the enemy lines. Pure, raw suicide.

But he was an officer and a Southern gentleman. Hell, Jeb had said time and time again that they were the last of the cavaliers.

And so, when the charge was sounded, Pierre raised his sword high. The powder was already thick and black; enemy cannon fire cut them down where they stood, where they moved, and still they pressed onward. He smelled the smoke. He smelled the charred flesh and heard the screams of his fellows, along with the deadly pulse of the drums and the sweet music of the piper.

He could no longer see where he was going. The air was black around him. It burned when he inhaled.

“Onward, boys! Onward! There's been no retreat called!” he ordered.

He led them—to their deaths. His eyes filled with tears that had nothing to do with the black powder. He knew he was going to die.

Fernandina Beach, Florida

Eugenia screamed.

Mary, startled from her task of stirring the boiling lye for soap, dropped her huge wooden spoon and streaked out to the lawn, where Eugenia had been hanging fresh-washed sheets beneath the summer sun. She was doubled over then, hands clasped to her belly, in some ungodly pain.

“Miz Eugenia!” Mary put her arms around her mistress, desperately anxious. Maybe it was the baby, coming long before its time. And here they were, so far from anywhere, when they would need help.

“Miz Eugenia, let me get you to the porch. Water, I'll fetch some water, ma'am, and be right back—”

Eugenia straightened. She stared out toward the ocean, seeing nothing. She shook her head. “I'm all right, Mary.”

“The baby—”

“The baby is fine.”

“Then—”

“He's dead, Mary.”

“Miz Eugenia—”

Eugenia shook off Mary's touch. “He's dead, Mary, I tell you.”

“Come to the porch, ma'am. That sun's gettin' to you, girl!”

Eugenia shook her head again. “Watch Gene for me, please.”

“But where—?”

Eugenia did not look back. She walked to the trail of pines where she had last seen her love when he had come to her. She came to the shore of the beach he had so loved. Where he had first brought her. Where they had first made love upon the sand and he had teased her so fiercely about her Northern inhibitions. She remembered his face when he had laughed, and she remembered the sapphire-blue intensity and beauty of his eyes when he had risen above her in passion.

She sank to the sand and wept.

* * *

Grapeshot.

It caught him in the gut, and it was not clean, nor neat, nor merciful.

He opened his eyes, and he could see a Yank surgeon looking down at him, and he knew from the man's eyes and he knew because he'd been living with it night and day for years that death had come for him and there was no denying it.

“Water, General?”

Pierre nodded. It didn't seem necessary to tell the Yank that he was a Lieutenant General. Not much of anything seemed necessary now.

“I'm dying,” he said flatly.

The young Yankee surgeon looked at him unhappily. He knew when you could lie to a man and when you couldn't.

“Yes, sir.”

Pierre closed his eyes. They must have given him some morphine. The Yanks still had the stuff. He didn't see powder anymore, and he didn't see black. The world was in fog, but it was a beautiful fog. A swirling place of mist and splendor.

He could see Eugenia. He could see the long trail that led from the beach along the pines.

She was running to him. He could see the fine and fragile lines of her beautiful face, and he could see her lips, curled in a smile of welcome. He lifted his hand to wave, and he ran....

She was coming closer and closer to him. Soon he would reach out and touch the silk of her skin. He would wrap his arms around her and feel her woman's warmth as she kissed him....

“General.”

Eugenia vanished into the mist. Pain slashed through his consciousness.

He opened his eyes. The surgeon was gone. He had moved on to those who had a chance to live, Pierre knew. A young bugler stood before him. “Sir, is there any—?”

Pierre could barely see; blood clouded his vision. He reached out to grab the boy's hand.

“I need paper. Please.”

“Sir, I don't know that I can—”

“Please. Please.”

The boy brought paper and a stub of lead. Pierre nearly screamed aloud when he tried to sit. Then the pain eased. His life was ebbing away.

Eugenia, my love, my life,

I cannot be with you, but I will always be with you. Love, for the children, do not forget the gold that is buried in the house. Use it to raise them well, love. And teach them that ours was once a glorious cause of dreamers, if an ill-fated and doomed one, too. Ever yours, Eugenia, in life and in death.

Pierre

He fell back. “Take this for me, boy, will you? Please. See that it gets to Eugenia Brandywine, Brandywine House, Fernandina Beach, Florida. Will you do it for me, boy?”

“Yes, sir!” The young boy saluted promptly.

Pierre fell back and closed his eyes. He prayed for the dream to come again. For the mist to come.

And it did. He saw her. He saw her smile. He saw her on the beach, and he saw her running to him. Running, running, running...

Three days later, an officer was sent out from Jacksonville to tell Eugenia Brandywine of her husband's death on the field of valor. The words meant nothing to her. Her expression was blank as she listened; her tears were gone. She had already cried until her heart was dry. She had already buried her love tenderly beneath the sands of time. When his body reached her, weeks later, it was nothing more than a formality to inter him in the cemetery on the mainland.

Pierre's second child, a girl, was born in October. By then the South was already strangling, dying a death as slow and painful and merciless as Pierre's. Eugenia's father sent for her, and with two small mouths to feed and little spirit for life, she decided to return home. Her mother would love her children and care for them when she had so little heart left for life.

One more time she went to the beach. One more time she allowed herself to smile wistfully and lose herself in memory and in dreams. She would always remember him as he had been that day. Her dashing, handsome, beautiful cavalier. Her ever-gallant lover.

She would never come back. She knew it. But she would tell the children about their inheritance. And they would come here. And then their children's children could come. And they could savor the sea breeze and the warmth of the water by night and the crystal beauty of the stars. In a better time, a better world.

Eugenia left in January of 1863. By the time the war ended and the young bugler—a certain Robert W. Matheson—reached Fernandina Beach in November of 1865, there was no one there except a testy maid who assured him that the lady of the house—Mrs. P. T. Brandywine—had gone north long ago and would never return.

“Well, can you see that she gets this, then? It's very important. It's from her husband. He entrusted it to me when he died.”

“Yes, young man. Yes. Now, go along with you.”

Sergeant Matheson, his quest complete, went on. The maid—hired by Eugenia's father and very aware that he didn't want his daughter reminded of the death—tossed the note into the cupboard, where it lay unopened for decade upon decade upon decade.

Chapter 10

R
ex ran up to the house, Samson barking at his heels. “Alexi!” he called, but all that greeted him was silence. In rising panic he shouted her name again, trying the door only to discover that it was locked. He dug for his own key, carefully twisted it in the lock and shoved the door open. Samson kept barking excitedly. His tail thumped the floor in such a way that Rex knew damn well there were no strangers around now. Rex was certain that if there had been a stranger about the place, Samson would be tearing after him—or her.

“Alexi!” He switched on the hall light. There was no sign of anything being wrong. Nothing seemed to be out of place. “Alexi!” He pushed open the door to the parlor and switched on the light. She wasn't there. He hurried on to the library, the ballroom, the powder room, and then up the stairs. “Alexi!” She wasn't in any of the bedrooms, he discovered as he swept through the place, turning on every light he passed.

He should never have left her. Something was wrong; he could feel it.

Maybe nothing was wrong. Nothing at all. Maybe she had just decided that it was time to call it quits with the small-town stuff, with the spooky old creepy house and the eccentric horror writer who seemed to come with it. Maybe she felt that Vinto was a threat and that she needed far more protection than she could ever find here.

Maybe, maybe—damn!

She hadn't gone anywhere. Not on purpose. She would have left him a note...something. She wouldn't have left him to run through the house like a madman, tearing out his hair.

He stormed down the stairs and burst into the kitchen. She wasn't there. Rex pulled out a chair and sank into it, debating his next movement. The police. He had to call the police. He never should have left her. Never. Or—oh, God, he groaned inwardly. At the very least, he should have left Samson with her. He'd blown the whole thing, all the way around. He'd gone out and gotten her a pair of kittens—kittens!—when he should have come back around with a Doberman. Or a pit bull. Yeah...with Vinto, it would have to be a pit bull.

“Where the hell is she?” he whispered aloud, desperately.

Samson, at his feet, thumped his tail against the floor and whined. Rex gazed absently at his dog and patted him on the head. Samson barked again loudly.

Rex jumped up.

“Where is she, boy? Where's Alexi?”

Samson started barking wildly again. Rex decided he was an idiot to be talking to the dog that way. Samson was a good old dog—but he wasn't exactly Lassie.

But then Samson barked again and ran over to the cellar door, whining. He came back and jumped on Rex, practically knocking him over. Then he ran back to the cellar door.

“And I said that you weren't Lassie!” Rex muttered. The cellar. Of course.

But he felt as if his heart were in his throat. He hadn't believed her. Not when she had told him that someone had chased her from the car. Not when she had been convinced that someone had been in the house. He had barely given her the benefit of the doubt when she had been certain that the snakes had been brought in.

And it was highly likely that John Vinto knew that she was terrified of snakes.

He had left her tonight.

And now he knew that she was in the cellar. But the cellar was pitch-dark, and he was in mortal terror of how he would find her.

“Alexi!” he screamed, and ripped open the door and nearly tumbled down the steps. Samson went racing down as Rex fumbled for the light switch.

The room was flooded with bright illumination.

And Rex found Alexi at last.

She was at the foot of the stairs, on her back, her elbow cast over her eyes, almost as if she were sleeping, one of her knees slightly bent over the other. The kittens, like little sentinels, sat on either side of her, meowing away now that he was there.

“Alexi!” This time, he whispered in fear. Then he found motion and ran down the steps to drop by her side. She was so white. Pasty white. How long had she been lying there? Swallowing frantically, he reached for her wrist, forcing himself to be calm. She had a pulse. A strong pulse.

“Oh, God,” he breathed. “Oh, God. Thank you.”

What had happened? He glanced quickly up the stairs, wondering if she had tripped and fallen. That didn't seem right. Why would she turn off every light in the house to come down to the cellar?

“Alexi...?” He touched her carefully, trying to ascertain whether she had broken any bones. She moaned softly, and he paused, inhaling sharply. She blinked and stared up at him in a daze, groaning as the light hit her eyes.

“Rex?”

“Alexi...stay still. I think I should call for an ambulance—”

“No! No!” Alexi sat up a little shakily, gripping her head between her hands and groaning again.

“Alexi!”

“I'm all right, really I am. I think.” She stretched out her arms and legs and tried to smile at him, proving that nothing was broken. But he didn't like her color, and he was worried about a head injury that had left her unconscious.

She gasped suddenly, her eyes going very wide as she stared at him. “Did you see him, Rex?”

“Who?”

“Someone was here. Really, Rex, I swear it.”

“Alexi, maybe you just fell—”

“I didn't! I heard someone in the house after you left. I kept trying to assume that I was imagining things, too. But there was someone here, Rex. Behind me on the stairs. I came down to feed the kittens, and when I tried to turn... I was struck on the head.”

“You're...sure?”

“Damn you, Rex!” She tried to stand, to swear down at him. But the effort was too dizzying, and before she could get any further, she felt herself falling.

She didn't fall. He caught her and lifted her into his arms.

“I'm...all right,” she tried to tell him.

“No, you're not,” he told her bluntly, starting up the stairs. She laced her fingers around his neck as he carried her and studied his face as he emitted a soft oath at Samson to get out of his way so that he wouldn't trip.

“There's no one here now?” she asked.

“There's definitely no one here now. But I am going to call the police.”

A silence fell for a moment as he reached the top of the stairs and closed the cellar door behind him. Alexi, cradled in his arms, kept staring at the contours of his face. She reached up to brush his cheek lightly with her knuckles.

“Were you angry, Rex? Or did you just need to escape?”

“I was angry,” he told her. He carried her on through the kitchen and out to the parlor, laying her down carefully on the sofa. He told her to hold still, and ran his fingers over her skull, wincing when he found the lump at her nape.

“Police first, then the hospital.”

“Rex—”

He ignored her and picked up the phone. Alexi closed her eyes for a moment. Maybe he was right. She still felt the most awful pain throbbing in her head.

But, curiously, she felt like smiling. He had come back—all somber and gruff and very worried—but back nonetheless. And he hadn't been running away from her—he had left because he had been angry, and for him, walking away had probably been the best way to deal with it.

He set the phone down and came back to her.

“With me?” she asked him.

“What?”

“Were you angry with me?”

He frowned, as if he wasn't at all sure what she was talking about. “I'm going to get a cold cloth for your temple. That might make you feel a little better.” He started out of the room.

“Rex!”

“What!”

“Where did you go?”

He held in the doorway and arched a dark brow, smiling slowly as he looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

She flushed and repeated herself softly.

He hesitated, still smiling. “Inquisitive, aren't you?”

“Not usually.”

“Well, that rather remains to be seen, doesn't it?” he asked her huskily. Then he said, “I went out to see Gene.”

“Gene?” She sat up abruptly, then moaned and slid down again. “Gene? He's my great-grandparent.”

“Yeah, but he's my very good friend. I saw him every day, you know. I lived here. You were off in New York.”

There was a strange sound to his voice as he said that; Alexi didn't have time to ponder it, because he went on to say, “I'm sorry. Maybe I had no right. I went out to ask him if he thought John Vinto could be behind all these strange occurrences.”

Alexi watched him, then offered up a soft smile that Rex knew was not for him.

“How is he?” she asked.

“Gene?”

“Of course Gene.”

“He's fine. He'll be out soon. He wanted to give you time to surprise him.”

She was still smiling when he left the room. By the time he came back with a cloth for her head, they could hear the sound of a siren as the sheriff's car headed for the house. Alexi closed her eyes as Rex placed the cold cloth on her head.

“Mark's here,” he told her, listening as the sound came closer and closer.

“Mark?”

“Mark Eliot. A friend of mine.”

He saw the deep smile that touched her lips. “You have a lot of friends around here, Mr. Morrow—an awful lot of friends for a recluse.”

“It's a friendly place,” he said lightly. He squeezed her hand and went on to answer the door.

Mark Eliot was a tall man with sandy-blond hair and a drooping mustache. Rex shook hands with him at the door and was glad to see that Mark seemed to be taking it all very seriously—not with the humor he had shown when Rex had suggested that the snakes might have been set loose in the house purposely.

“Was anything taken?” Mark asked as they came into the parlor.

“Not that we know of,” Rex said. He frowned as they came in, noting that Alexi had chosen to sit up. She still seemed very pale.

“Alexi, Mark Eliot, with the sheriff's office. Mark, Alexi—”

“Alexi Jordan.” Mark took her hand. He didn't let it go. “Anything, ma'am. Anything at all that we can do for you, you just let us know.”

“Mark—we're trying to report a break and enter and assault.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah.”

He sat down beside Alexi. Rex crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall and watched and waited. Mark did manage to get through the proper routine of questions. He even scribbled notes on a piece of paper, and when he was done, Rex had to admit that even tripping over his own tongue, Mark was all right at his job.

“There is no sign of forced entry. Nothing was taken. Rex, when you came back, the house was still locked tight as a drum. Miss Jordan...” He hesitated.

“I didn't imagine a knock to my own head,” Alexi said indignantly.

“Well, no...” Mark murmured. He looked to Rex for assistance. Rex didn't intend to give him any.

“You did fall down the stairs,” Mark said.

“After I was struck,” Alexi insisted quietly.

“Well, then...” He stood up, smiling down at her. “I can call out the print boys. May I use the phone?”

“Of course. Please.”

Mark Eliot called his office. Rex offered to make coffee. In very little time, the fingerprint experts were out and the house was dusted. Alexi insisted on coming into the kitchen with the men. While the house was dusted, Mark excitedly told Rex about the book he was working on, and Rex gave him a few suggestions. Alexi put in a few, too, and was somewhat surprised when they both paid attention to her.

It was late when the men from the sheriff's department left. Alexi started picking up the coffee cups that littered the kitchen. Rex caught her hand.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“Hospital.”

“Rex, I'm fine—” she protested.

“You're not.”

“I don't—”

“You will.”

She set her jaw stubbornly. “Rex, dammit—”

“Alexi, dammit.”

“I'm not going anywhere. It's been hours now, and I feel just fine.”

Rex leaned back and thought about it for a minute. Independent. She was accustomed to being independent. She really didn't like to be told what to do. If he forced her hand, it could stand against him.

But she really needed to go to a hospital. Just as a precautionary measure. She'd be mad at him, but...

“Rex...?”

Alexi didn't like the way he was looking at her as he came toward her. “Rex!” She screamed out her protest when he scooped her up into his arms. “Rex, damn you, I said—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I heard you.”

“You can't do this!”

“Apparently I can.”

He stopped by the kitchen table to slip his pinky around the strap of her purse. He hurried through the house, yelling at Samson to get back when the shepherd tried to follow him. Alexi struggled against him, but he didn't give her much leverage. A moment later he deposited her in the car and locked the door. He slid into the driver's seat and revved the car into motion before she could think about hopping out.

She didn't say anything to him. She stared straight ahead, rubbing her wrist where he had gripped it.

Rex put the car into gear and glanced her way. “Alexi, your face is pale gray!”

She didn't say anything. She just kept staring ahead, watching as they left the peninsula behind and sped on to the highway.

“Gray, mind you—ashen.”

She cast him a rebellious stare, her blue eyes sizzling.

“Sickly, ash gray.”

She sighed and sank into the seat. “You could have at least let me get my toothbrush!”

Rex laughed and turned his attention back to the road. She would, he felt sure, forgive him for this one.

“Maybe they'll say that you're fine and that you can go right home.”

She smiled at that. But when they reached the hospital, the doctor determined that she did have a minor concussion and that she should stay at least overnight for observation. Alexi cast Rex a definitely malignant stare, but he ignored her—and promised to run down to the gift shop and buy her a toothbrush.