The Witching Hour (153 page)

Yes, better. Probably purely psychological, but better.

“Good. I’m glad you feel better.”

“Thank you,” she said, thinking what a lovely voice, so soft and with a touch of a Scottish accent, wasn’t it? A beautiful melodious voice.

She opened her eyes, and with a violent start, stumbled backwards against the door of the refrigerator.

He was standing on the other side of the counter. About three feet away. His whisper had been raw, heartfelt. But the expression on his face was a little colder, and entirely human. Slightly hurt perhaps, but not imploring as it had been that night in Tiburon. No, not that at all.

This had to be a real man. It was a joke of some kind. This was a real man. A man standing here in the kitchen, staring at her, a tall, brown-haired man with large dark eyes, and a beautifully shaped sensuous mouth.

The light through the French doors clearly revealed his shirt, and the rawhide vest he wore. Old, old clothing, clothing made with hand stitches and uneven seams, and big full sleeves.

“Well? Where is your will to destroy me, beautiful one?” he whispered, in the same low, vibrant, and heartbroken voice. “Where is your power to drive me back into hell?”

She was shaking uncontrollably. The glass slipped out of her wet fingers and struck the floor with a dull noise and rolled to one side. She gave a deep, ragged sigh, and kept her eyes focused upon him. The reasoning part of her observed that he was tall, perhaps over six feet, that he had heavily muscled arms and powerful hands. That his face was perfect in its proportions, and that his hair was softly mussed, as if by a wind. Not that delicate androgynous gentleman she’d seen on the deck, no.

“The better to love you, Rowan!” he whispered. “What shape would you have me take? He is not perfect, Rowan, he is human but not perfect. No.”

For a moment her fear was so great that she felt a tight squeezing inside of her as if she were going to die. Moving against it, defiant and enraged, she came forward, legs trembling, and reached out across the counter, and touched his cheek.

Roughened, like Michael’s. And the lips silky. God! Once again, she stumbled backwards, paralyzed, and unable to move or speak. Tremors moved through her limbs.

“You fear me, Rowan?” he said, lips barely moving as she focused on them. “Why? Leave your friend, Aaron, alone, you commanded me, and I did as you commanded, did I not?”

“What do you want?”

“Ah, that would be a very long time in the telling,” he answered, the Scottish accent thickened. “And he waits for you, your lover, and your husband, on this your wedding night. And he grows anxious that you do not come.”

The face softened, torn suddenly with pain. How could an illusion be this vital?

“Go, Rowan, go back to him,” he said sadly, “and if you tell him I am here, you will make him more miserable than even you know. And I shall hide from you again, and the fear and the suspicion will eat at him, and I will come only when I want to come.”

“All right. I won’t tell him,” she whispered. “But don’t you harm him. Don’t you bring the slightest fear or worry to him. And the other tricks, stop them! Don’t plague him with tricks! Or I swear to you, I will never never speak to you. And I will drive you away.”

The beautiful face looked tragic, and the brown eyes grew soft and infinitely sad.

“And Aaron, you’re never to harm Aaron. Never. Never to harm anyone, do you hear me?”

“As you say, Rowan,” he said, the words flowing like music, full of sorrow and quiet strength. “What is there in all the world for me, but pleasing Rowan? Come to me when he sleeps. Tonight, tomorrow, come when you will. There is no time for me. I am here when you say my name. But keep faith with me, Rowan. Come alone to me, and in secret. Or I will not answer. I love you, my beautiful Rowan. But I have a will. I do.”

The figure suddenly shimmered as if a sourceless light had struck it; it brightened and a thousand tiny details of it were suddenly visible. Then it became transparent, and a gust of warm air struck her, frightening her, and then leaving her alone in the darkness, with nothing there.

She put her hand to her mouth. The nausea came again. She stood waiting it out, shivering, and on the verge of screaming, when she heard Michael’s soft but unmistakable tread coming through the pantry and into the kitchen. She forced herself to open her eyes.

He had slipped into his jeans, and his chest and his feet were bare.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he whispered. He saw the glass gleaming in the dark; against the bottom of the refrigerator. He bent down, past her, and picked it up and put it in the sink. “Rowan, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Michael,” she said thickly, trying to control the
trembling, the tears springing to her eyes. “I’m sick, just a little sick. It happened this morning, and this afternoon and yesterday too actually. I don’t know what it is. It was the cigarette just now. I’ll be OK, Michael, honestly. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know what it is?” he asked her.

“No, I just … I guess it’s … cigarettes never did that to me before .… ”

“Dr. Mayfair,” he said. “You sure you don’t know?”

She felt his hands on her shoulders. She felt his hair brush her cheek gently as he bent to kiss the tops of her breasts. She started to cry, her hands clasping his head, feeling the silkiness of his hair.

“Dr. Mayfair,” he said. “Even I know what it is.”

“What are you talking about?” she whispered. “I just need to sleep, to go upstairs.”

“You’re pregnant, honey. Go look at yourself in the mirror.” And very gently he touched her breasts again, and she herself felt the plumpness, the slight soreness, and she knew, knew absolutely from all the other little unnoticed signs, that he was right. Absolutely right.

She dissolved into tears. She let him pick her up and tumble her against him, and carry her slowly through the house. Her body ached from the tension of the awful moments in the kitchen, and her sobs were coming dry and painfully from her throat. She didn’t think it was possible for him to carry her up that long stairway, but he did it, and she let him do it, crying against his chest, her fingers tight around his neck.

He set her down on the bed, and kissed her. In a daze she watched him blow out the candles, and come back to her.

“I love you so much, Rowan,” he said. He was crying too. “I love you so much. I’ve never been so happy … it comes in waves, and each time I think it’s the pinnacle, and then it comes again. And this of all nights to know … God, what a wedding gift, Rowan. What did I ever do to deserve this happiness, I wish I knew.”

“I love you, too, my darling. Yes … so happy.” As he climbed under the covers, she turned away, tucking herself against him, and feeling his knees draw up under hers. She cried against the pillow, taking his hand and folding it over her breasts.

“Everything is so perfect,” he whispered.

“Nothing to spoil it,” she whispered, “not a single thing.”

S
HE WOKE BEFORE
he did. After the first round of nausea, she packed the suitcases quickly, with all the prefolded bundles of clothes. Then she went downstairs into the kitchen.

Everything clean and quiet in the sunlight. No sign of what had taken place last night. And the pool sparkling out there beyond the screened porch. And the sun filtering down softly through the screens onto the white wicker furniture.

She examined the counter. She examined the floor. She could detect nothing. Then, filled with revulsion and anger, she made the coffee as quickly as she could, so as to get out of the room, and she brought it up to Michael.

He was just opening his eyes.

“Let’s take off now,” she said.

“I thought we wouldn’t leave till this afternoon,” he said sleepily. “But sure, we can go now, if you want to.” Ever her agreeable hero. He gave her a soft kiss on the cheek, his unshaven beard deliciously scratchy. “How do you feel?” he whispered.

“I’m fine now,” she said. She reached out and touched the little gold crucifix tangled in the dark hair of his chest. “It was bad for about half an hour. Probably it will come again. I’ll sleep when it does. I’d love to get to Destin in time to walk on the beach in the sunshine.”

“But what about seeing a doctor before we leave?”

“I am a doctor,” she said with a smile. “And remember the special sense? It’s doing just fine in there.”

“Does the special sense tell you if he’s a boy or a girl?” he asked.

“If
he
is a boy or a girl?” She laughed. “I wish it did. But then maybe I want to be surprised. What about you?”

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it were twins?”

“Yes, that would be great,” she said.

“Rowan, you’re not … unhappy about the baby, are you?”

“No, God no! Michael, I want the baby. I’m just a little sick still. It comes and goes. Look, I don’t want to tell the others
just yet. Not until we come back from Florida. The honeymoon will be ruined if we do.”

“Agreed.” Tentatively, he placed his warm hand on her belly. “It’s awhile yet before you feel it in there, isn’t it?”

“It’s a quarter of an inch long,” she said, smiling again. “It doesn’t weigh an ounce. But
I
can feel it. It’s swimming in a state of bliss, with all its tiny cells multiplying.”

“What does it look like now?”

“Well, it’s like a tiny sea being. It could stretch out on your thumbnail. It has eyes, and even clubby little hands, but no real fingers or even arms yet. Its brain is already there, at least the rudiments of the brain, already divided into two halves. And for some reason which nobody on earth can divine, all its tiny cells know what to do—they know exactly where to go to continue forming the organs which are already there, and only have to perfect themselves. Its tiny heart has been beating inside me for over a month now.”

He gave a deep, satisfied sigh. “What are we going to name it?”

She shrugged. “What about Little Chris? Would that be … too hard for you?”

“No, that would be great. Little Chris. And it will be Christopher if it’s a boy, and Christine if it’s a girl. How old will it be at Christmas?” He started to calculate.

“Well, it’s probably six to seven weeks now. Maybe eight. As a matter of fact, it could very well be eight. So that means … four months. It will have all its parts, but its eyes will still be closed. Why? You’re wondering whether it would prefer a red fire engine to a baseball bat?”

He chuckled. “No, it’s just that it’s the greatest Christmas gift I could ever have dreamed of. Christmas has always been special to me, special in almost a pagan way. And this is going to be the grandest Christmas I ever had, that is, until next year when she’s walking around and banging her little fire engine with her baseball bat.”

He looked so vulnerable, so innocent, so completely trusting in her. When she looked at him, she could almost forget what had happened last night. She could almost forget everything. She gave him a quick kiss, slipped into the bathroom, and stood against the locked door with her eyes closed.

You devil, she whispered, you’ve really timed it well, haven’t you? Do you like my hate? Is it what you’ve been dreaming of?

Then she remembered the face in the darkened kitchen, and the soft heartbroken voice, like fingers touching her.
What is there in all the world for me, but pleasing Rowan?

* * *

They got away at about ten o’clock. Michael drove. And she felt better by that time, and managed to go to sleep for a couple of hours. When she opened her eyes, they were already in Florida, driving down through the dark pine forest from the interstate to the road that ran along the beach. She was clearheaded and refreshed, and when she caught the first glimpse of the Gulf, she felt safe, as if the dark kitchen in New Orleans and its apparition no longer existed.

The weather was cool, but no more so than any bracing summer day in northern California. They put on their heavy sweaters and strolled on the deserted beach. At sunset, they ate their supper by the fire, with the windows open to the Gulf breeze.

Some time around eight o’clock, she went to work on the plans for Mayfair Medical, continuing her study of the great “for profit” chains of hospitals, in comparison to the “not for profit” models which interested her more keenly.

But her mind was wandering. She couldn’t really concentrate on the dense articles about profit and loss, and abuses within the various systems.

At last she made a few notes and went to bed, lying for hours in the darkened bedroom while Michael worked on his restoration plans in the other room, listening to the great roar of the Gulf through the open doors, and feeling the breeze wash over her.

What was she going to do? Tell Michael and Aaron, as she had sworn to do? And then he would retreat, and play his little tricks perhaps, and the tension would increase with every passing day.

She thought of her little baby again, her fingers lying on her stomach. Probably conceived right after she’d asked Michael to marry her. She’d always been highly irregular in her seasons, and she felt that she knew the very night it had happened. She’d dreamed of a baby that night. But she couldn’t really remember.

Was it dreaming inside her? She pictured the tiny circuitry of its developing brain. No longer embryo by now, but an entire fetus. She closed her eyes, listening, feeling.
All right.
And then her own strong telepathic sense began to frighten her.

Had she the power within her to hurt this child? The thought was so terrifying that she couldn’t bear it. And when she thought of Lasher again, he too seemed a menace to this frail and busy little being, because he was a threat to her, and she was her baby’s entire world.

How could she protect it from her own dark powers, and from
the dark history that sought to ensnare it? Little Chris. You will not grow up with curses and spirits, and things that go bump in the night. She cleared her mind of dark and turbulent thoughts; she envisioned the sea outside, crashing endlessly on the beach, no one wave like another, yet all part of the same great monotonous force, full of sweet and lulling noise and incalculable variation.