The Missing Year (10 page)

Ross showered and changed into clean clothes, feeling more like a private investigator than a psychiatrist. The call to Ruth Wheeler had taken an unexpected turn, leaving him conflicted about his feelings toward Lila.

Remembering Sarah’s final days, how much pain she had been in and how badly he had wanted her suffering to stop, he tried not to judge Lila too harshly—at least not without more of the facts.

Ross typed “Blake Wheeler Edinburgh Surgeon Malpractice” into a search engine, looking for anything about the patient who had died under Blake’s care. Non-specific results on malpractice and Edinburgh hospitals returned, but nothing relating to Blake. Ross searched “Huntington’s Blake Wheeler” and found only a few links related to fundraisers Blake had attended.

Ross opened the first link and clicked to enlarge a photo of the Wheelers, a stunning twenty-something couple almost ten years in the past. “Local Surgeon Donates $100,000 to the Fight Against Huntington’s Disease” the article declared. Blake, a handsome man with sandy blond hair and hazel eyes, wore a tailored black tuxedo and a rose in his lapel. He held his hand on the small of Lila’s back and had the starry-eyed look of a man in love.

Lila smiled, her lips full and her body a good thirty pounds heavier than the skeletal figure he had fished out of the lake earlier that morning. Her natural, tilted-head gaze held admiration for the man on her arm.

Ross clicked the back button on his browser and looked at two more recent articles. A third member had joined the Wheeler party, a man by the name of Dr. Jeremy Davis. Similar in height to Blake, Jeremy looked to be about the Wheelers’ age. His close-cropped brown hair had the faint hint of gray one might expect from someone in their thirties. He had fair skin and narrow, bespectacled eyes, which were perpetually fixed on Lila.

Ross tried not to let his mind go to the worst possible scenario, but he’d seen too many forensic shows to wonder if there wasn’t more to Lila and Jeremy’s relationship. He added infidelity to the list of possible reasons Lila would pull the plug on Blake. The guilt of such an act became one of the few plausible motives for Lila’s attempted suicide, other than grief.

According to internet research, Dr. Jeremy Davis, a schoolmate of Blake’s, lived only a few miles from the Wheelers. There was no mention of a wife or children. Confirmed bachelorhood didn’t make Jeremy guilty of anything, certainly not of sleeping with a friend’s wife, but it didn’t help his case, either.

Ross was about to dig further into Jeremy’s personal life when a knock came at his motel room door. He expected housekeeping, or someone from the office come to talk about his room, but instead found a leggy blond dressed in skinny jeans and a button-down flannel opened halfway down her cleavage. She brushed her windblown hair back from her face and nearly tripped when she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“Camille. What are you doing here?” Ross stood in the doorway, not immediately inviting her in.

“Did you get my messages?” Camille’s words were slow, her speech slightly slurred. Her oversized purse slipped off her shoulder and jolted her when it hit the crook of her elbow.

Ross didn’t need to smell her breath to know she’d been drinking again. “I did, but it’s late. I was going to call you back tomorrow.”

A yellow checkered cab kicked up a cloud of dust as it pulled out of the parking lot. Ross wondered if the driver and Camille were on a first name basis.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she said.

“Sure,” Ross answered, seeing no other option. “Can I get you something? Water? Soda?”

“Whatever you’re having.” Camille sat on the footrest next to Ross’s bed, her bag at her feet.

Ross handed her a bottle of water and turned the desk chair to face her. “Is everything all right?”

Camille twisted the cap off the water, took a sip, and wiped a stream of dribble from her chin. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Five calls between work and the motel had me wondering.”

“And yet you didn’t call back.” She leaned forward, offering Ross a clear sightline down her shirt.

He didn’t intend to notice, but she was wearing the most seductive lace bra. “I’m sorry about that. What’s up?” He tried to keep the conversation casual, but could feel the tension swelling between them.

“You didn’t leave me your cell number.” She licked her painted pink lips. “Didn’t you want me to call?”

“Of course I did.” Ross uttered the only acceptable answer. “It slipped my mind.”

Ross had wondered if Camille was coming on to him at Mick’s the night before. Now he was positive. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” Camille set her hand on his knee.

“What’s going on here?”

“What do you mean?” Camille left her hand where it was and slid the ottoman forward until her knee came to rest between his.

Ross tried to move his chair, but its back was against the desk. “It’s late, Camille, and you’ve obviously been drinking.”

“Two glasses of wine.”

“Enough to call a cab.”

“I’m not drunk, Ross.” She reached up and tugged at the neckline of her shirt. What appeared to be buttons were actually snaps and the swift motion had her breasts exposed through a veil of black lace. “I’m perfectly self-aware and I’ve been thinking about this since last night.”

She tried to kiss him.

He scrambled to get away from her.

“What are you doing, Camille? Stop.”

He stood and she yanked him back into the chair. She kicked the ottoman behind her and dropped to her knees, looking up at him with both hands on his thighs. “What if I don’t want to?” She stretched until her lips met his and whispered, “What if I need this?” She kissed him, her hands creeping closer to his groin. “What if I need
you
?” Her manicured nails scratched at his skin through his cotton pajama pants and sent chills up his spine. Her touch was electric. “I need you,” she moaned between kisses.

Her mouth tasted like wine and peppermint and for a moment, Ross almost gave in. Primal need had him blocking the part of him that knew this was wrong. He ran his hands over Camille’s narrow shoulders, down her toned back, and hooked his thumbs into the waist of her pants before slamming on the brakes.

“We can’t do this,” he said.

As usual, the right thing won out.

He took a deep breath to regain his center and lifted Camille’s chin.

Only then did he realize she was crying.

“Camille, I’m sorry.” Ross wiped the tears from her cheek and offered her a hand.

Camille stood, holding her shirt closed. Mascara streaked her face and she sniffled, her expression something close to mortified.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh my God.” She turned around and frantically snapped her shirt, the end product one snap off from even. “Ross, I didn’t mean to—”

Either she was drunker than advertised, or in need of serious help. He wasn’t about to ask which. “It’s okay.”

“It’s
not
okay.” Camille brushed the dirt from the knees of her jeans—the mud from Ross’s shoes having dried on the carpet where she had been kneeling. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Camille, it’s all right. Nothing happened.” In a sense, nothing had. Her sharp change of mood had him thankful they hadn’t gone further. “Are you all right?”

She crossed the room, hoisted her oversized handbag onto the ottoman, and let out an exasperated laugh when she pulled out her cell phone. “Of course!” She dried her eyes with her sleeve. “Of course the battery’s dead.”

“Camille, if you need to make a call—” Ross held out his phone.

She snatched it from his hand. “I don’t even know the cab company’s number.”

“I can look it up online.” Ross’s computer had gone into hibernate, but was running behind him. “Do you know the name?”

“Checkered taxi, or yellow taxi, or yellow checkered taxi,” Camille said, flustered.

“I find about ten of them.”

Camille threw his phone onto the bed with a laugh. “I can’t believe how stupid I am. I don’t know what I was thinking coming here. What the hell is wrong with me?” She collapsed to the floor, drew her knees to her chest, and buried her face in her arms.

Ross straightened the hem of his sweatshirt and cautiously approached her. “Hey, come on. It’s all right.” He set his hand on her heaving shoulder and she shrugged him away.

“I’m so embarrassed.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “It’s not you—”

“It’s me, right? That’s what you’re going with?”

He never imagined her taking rejection so hard.

“It
is
me, Camille.” Ross sat on the floor next to her. “Look at me.” She stared at the carpet, her eyes red, teary, and swollen. “Please?” He set his hand gentle against her damp cheek and turned her to face him. “You’re beautiful.” He sincerely meant it. “You’ve always been beautiful and I’m flattered that you’re interested in me, that you want to be with me, but the truth is, I haven’t been able to be with anyone since Sarah—not without feeling guilty. Do you know what happened right before I came back here?”

“No.” She cried harder, either because she was terrible at taking a compliment or was utterly humiliated.

“I broke up with my girlfriend. I couldn’t even bring her to my house because Sarah’s things are everywhere. Imagine how I’d feel after being with you, her best friend. You asked me about being a recluse, there it is. I am an emotional hermit,” he said. Camille let out a slight laugh. “Every time I think I’m getting over Sarah, something draws me back. This …” he gestured between them, “… me and you … can’t happen, Camille, and it’s nothing personal. Truthfully, I’m still in love with my wife.”

Camille climbed into his lap, weeping, her arms tight around his neck and her face buried against his chest. “I miss her so much,” she said between sobs.

“I miss her, too,” Ross said, trying not to cry. “I miss her, too.”

Ross woke up in a panic, his face full of Camille’s blond hair, which had fanned out across the pillow.

“Camille, wake up.” He shook her by the shoulder. “Come on. Wake up.” He leapt out of bed, having forgotten to set an alarm.

Camille rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Makeup streaked her tear-stained face and an impression of the snap on her sleeve had been stamped into her cheek. She flattened her hair with her hands and smacked her lips. “What time is it?” she said, stretching.

“Seven-thirty. I’m going to be late for work.”

Camille ran her tongue across her teeth, looking at the made bed they had slept upon. She looked down at her shirt and fixed her gaze on the off-centered snaps.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Ross said. “Nothing happened.”

“Are you
sure
?”

“Positive. You had more than two glasses of wine last night, didn’t you?”

“More like a bottle.”

“At least you called a cab.”

Camille felt around the bed. “Whatever I said or did, I didn’t mean it. It was the alcohol talking. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it. What are you looking for?”

“Nothing. I’m not looking for anything.”

“Then I’m going to take a quick shower. I’ll be right out.”

Ross turned on the water and jumped into the spray before it was hot. He let out a howl and knocked the shampoo bottle from the ledge directly onto his toe.

“Everything okay?” Camille asked from the other side of the curtain.

“I dropped the shampoo, the water is cold, but other than that, yes. Everything is fine.” His big toe throbbed as he lathered up, the bar of soap bearing the grit of the previous day’s post-swim shower.

“Mind if I use your toothbrush? Something tastes awful.”

“Since you put it that way, help yourself.”

The previous night had Ross feeling closer to Camille than he had felt to anyone in a long time. Different than the affection he had for Mattie, the friendship he and Camille had rekindled felt like family.

He could tell her anything.

Based on the previous night’s conversation, Camille felt much the same.

She confessed about her failed marriage, about Adrian had cheated after her near-breakdown following Sarah’s funeral. She said she had tried, but couldn’t forgive him.

Ross owned up to his problems at work, telling her how he’d gone too far with the Pope case, nearly costing the girl her life, and how almost losing his job forced him to face his most difficult case yet—Lila Wheeler, a patient he spoke about only in abstract.

“You’re going to be fine, you know?” Camille said, her presence that of a pesky sister. She swished then spat a mouthful of water into the sink.

“How so?” Ross rinsed off and reached out for the towel she had taken from the rack, peeking from around the curtain.

“Here.” She handed it to him after wiping her chin. “I mean with Sarah’s birthday.”

“Camille, I’m not sure—”

“You’re not backing out on me, are you?”

Ross wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out onto the thin floor mat. “No, but what if I can’t do it? What if seeing her headstone throws me over the edge?” Of all his admissions, telling Camille about his failed trip to the cemetery had been the hardest and left him feeling the most vulnerable.

“You’ve always been stronger than me, Ross, and I made it.”

Ross picked up his electric razor and shaved while looking for an outfit. The mood had gotten too heavy. He grabbed a green button-down, a white sweater, and a pair of navy blue dress pants and set them on the bed before pulling a pair of boxers up under his towel.

Camille wolf whistled when he accidentally mooned her.

“Not funny,” he said, second-guessing his decision to get dressed in front of her. The motel room was too small and he was running too late to do otherwise.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Camille ran a wet washcloth over her face. “If it makes you feel any better, the first time I went to see Sarah, I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I wasn’t sure I could. Now, the cemetery is like our place. I go there to sit, to relax, and imagine her there with me. Before you turned up, Sarah was the only person I felt comfortable talking to. Weird, right?”

Ross shook his head. “Not weird. And she
is
there, at least part of her.”

“Her spirit?”

“Her body.” Ross wasn’t a religious man, the byproduct of being raised by an ex-Catholic with anger issues about her husband’s untimely death.

“Is that what you’re having trouble dealing with, the idea of her remains?”

“I thought we were done talking about this.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t need help, Camille. I’m the psychiatrist, you’re the actress. Besides, it’s not that. I don’t want to remember my wife as a name on a slab.” Ross checked the clock for the fifth time in five minutes. “Anyway, I really have to go.”

“You still have the number to those cab companies?”

Ross grabbed his keys from the nightstand and tossed them to her. “Why don’t you drop me off at the center and you can pick me up after work?”

“Really? What if you need to leave early?”

“Why would I need to do that?”

“After what happened yesterday—”

He’d forgotten he told her about the lake.

“It’ll be fine,” he said. “Keep your phone close, and this time we’ll exchange numbers.”