Through the Shadows (2 page)

Oh well, Tori, I guess you’ll go cold turkey tonight. No smooth sounds from Al Green or soulful tunes from Smokey Robinson to keep you company.

She turned down the duvet on her double bed that tonight seemed mammoth and slid between the cool, crisp sheets. Staring into the imageless void, Tori realized this was the first time she had noticed how truly dark it was in her room. Disgusted, she got out of bed to turn on the bathroom light but forced herself to show some maturity and close the door partway.

I may need to get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I don’t want to bump into anything in the dark.

The bed wasn’t as comforting as it had been a few minutes before. The pillow now had canyon-sized craters, no matter how much she tried to fluff it out. The mattress developed boulder-sized lumps and the sheets were trying to grasp her legs in a stranglehold.

The house picked this time to act up, too. Every wooden beam began to creak like an old-man’s joints. The windowpanes rattled like dry bones in their frames. From the bathroom there was the roaring, monotonous drip of a water faucet.

Gawd! This is ridiculous! I may as well admit defeat and turn on the television. I’m not going to be able to go to sleep in all this noisy silence!

Sneering at her own cowardice, Tori stalked into the living room to turn on the television. She thought the best choice would be a music channel but all the local cable company offered was a country music station.

“Oh well, it’s better than nothing. Yee haw! Ride ’em cowboy!”

As she was leaving the room, she stopped just long enough to switch on one of the lamps beside the couch.

Chicken!

Tori walked into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee and saw the indicator light was bright on the coffee maker, telling her she had forgotten to turn it off. She poured herself a cup and decided it wasn’t too strong, even after sitting there for two hours.

Only two hours? Strange, it seems much longer than that. I guess it’s a good a thing ironing clothes is against my religion. I’d probably leave the iron on, too, and burn the house down around my head!

She carried her cup into the living room, debating if she wanted to force herself to work on her book or lose herself in some meaningless, late-night television program. She knew that she didn’t do her best writing if she wasn’t in the mood, so she opted for the TV.

While channel surfing, she found one her favorite movies was on. She leaned back in her recliner, sipped her coffee, and became enmeshed in the story. She had always enjoyed the movie, not only for its knighted men, but also for their undying love for their ladies. Tori had often wished she had a man to love her like that. He would battle for her, give his life for her, but not before he loved her completely and thoroughly. But Tori knew that even if she were ready for love again, her own imaginative mind would keep most men far away. She had her own painful past to draw from to reach that conclusion.

* * *

Tori had wanted to be a writer since she was twelve years old. She began writing short stories about anything and everything. She could hear a song title or a particularly picturesque phrase, and just sit still, allowing her imagination free reign. She could travel the span of this world and imagined others in her mind. Different scenarios would jockey and shift into position, only to be replaced by a bigger, better idea. Within minutes, a full-fledged story took up residence and she would begin frantically writing before she lost the idea.

Words had always been her best friends, her own creativity drawing her into its lonely, alluring grip. When her mind was filled with words begging to be written, there weren’t enough hours in the day to keep up, and friends fell by the wayside.

One of the few exceptions to this rule was Jim Stanfield, a young man she met at a coffee shop. He had seen something special deep inside the shy girl, her loving heart beneath the seemingly aloof exterior. Others had thought her standoffish, but Jim had seen the truth.

The marriage had been serene, comforting, and Tori’s love for writing took a backseat to the love for her husband. The fact that she was not writing wasn’t a hardship; she knew that she could return to it any time she wished. She just felt it best to give herself completely to Jim, at least for a few years.

They had bought this house, decorating it with playful enthusiasm. Just picking out the wallpaper had been an adventure for the two lovebirds. They took their time remodeling, even decorating a room for the nursery with confidant love.

Tori had never used birth control; she and Jim both wanted a baby as soon as possible. Each month was a disappointment that was tempered with hope that the next month would be a joyful victory. In the beginning, they explained it away by saying they were trying too hard, she hadn’t been ovulating at the right time, or they were too tensed-up about the situation.

As the months turned into years, the disappointment turned to anger and they both became bitter. They began quarreling about unimportant things, like what to have for dinner. Soon the arguments turned ugly. Jim blamed her for not becoming pregnant and Tori blamed him for not being fertile enough to
get
her pregnant.

It all ended just before Christmas, five years before. The fight started over what kind of tree they would buy to decorate. It escalated into a screaming, cursing battle they would both remember for the rest of their lives. When Jim walked out she spent that Christmas, and every one after that, without him.

It took Tori several months to realize Jim was never coming home. She now accepted it, but she had never quit hurting. She also accepted the fact that the kind of love she wanted, needed, would never be hers.

Loneliness had enveloped her soul like a shroud. To accelerate the healing process, Tori had gone back to her one constant, true friend—writing. She thought if she lost herself in words that she wouldn’t miss Jim so much. All she had accomplished was making a little money so she could survive. She took it one day at a time, praying her heart would mend.

Sharon, her mother, had been a blessing. If not for her, Tori felt she wouldn’t have made it. She had moved in with her daughter until the worst of the storm had passed and only a quiet light mist remained. Sharon had then gone back home but stayed in frequent contact with her only child. Tori knew that her mother prayed every day for her to find a cure for her bruised heart.

The answer to Sharon’s prayers for her daughter came in the form of a literary agent. Lydia Palmer was a strong force to be reckoned with but she had a soft spot for new, promising writers. The intimidating Brit became Tori’s agent, critic, and friend. Lydia had taken Tori’s raw talent and helped polish it to a dazzling diamond just waiting to be discovered.

It was Lydia who encouraged Tori when the rejections poured in. It was Lydia who helped construct a foundation to boost Tori’s meager sense of self-worth. It was Lydia who encouraged the young writer to never give up, to keep fighting. For these priceless gifts, Tori would always love and respect her agent.

Over the years, Lydia had become like family to Tori and Sharon. The older women seem to have a special connection and their friendship grew into a sisterhood.

As she stared without interest at the television, Tori smiled when she thought about Lydia joining her for lunch in just a few hours. She knew she would look bedraggled from lack of sleep and grinned when she imagined how Lydia would be concerned, but understanding. Lydia, too, had been left by a husband and had floundered alone in a tidal wave of loneliness. Perhaps that’s the reason her career had taken on such a frantic edge.

So intent on her thoughts, Tori didn’t hear the muffled step in the adjoining room. A soft, seductive voice spoke her name. It asked her when she was coming to bed. The voice, tone, and timber were so real, so
intimate
, she momentarily forgot Jim wasn’t there anymore. A familiar feeling of loving amusement that he had felt for her side of the bed, found it empty and wanted her to come to bed, made her grin. And, just as always, she answered him.

“Just a minute, honey.”

In the space of a heartbeat she remembered, and was terrified.

Her breath caught in her chest, her ears strained for any and every sound. Her eyes were round and large as she stared straight ahead, afraid to turn her head in the direction of the voice. Terror drummed through her veins and she felt the accompanying pulse at her temple.

Trembling, her head rotated on its axis and Tori could hear every vertebrae grind in the terminally slow movement. The elasticity of her skin seemed to have shrunken into a sweat-drenched mask, too tight to allow an expression.

Tori didn’t want to (
had to, had to
) look into the dark (
O God, it’s so dark in there!
) hallway. Every fiber of her numb brain implored her to just get the hell out of there. But where could she go, at 3
A.M.
, in pajamas, and with her keys in her purse,
in the other room
?

Oh, this is ridiculous! I’m thirty years old and I’m afraid of some little sound in my own home? Okay, okay, it’s more than just a sound and if I’m honest with myself, I’ll admit I’m scared to pieces. O God, what a horrible, grotesque expression. I don’t think I’ll use that particular phrase ever again. All right, stop it, Tori. Right now. Get up off your duff and see where that noise came from.

Not any braver for her own pep talk, Tori forced herself to stand up. Taking as deep a breath as frozen lungs would allow, she whirled on her heel, ready to run if necessary.

There was no one there. It was just as earlier that evening, in the computer room, when she thought she had felt a presence behind her. Was she losing her ever-loving mind? Was it really time for an extended vacation in a Rubber Ramada where all the mattresses were nailed to the wall?

Tori’s explosive release of breath came from the pit of her stomach. Mentally shaking her head, she gave into the shiver that jittered between her shoulders.

Tori heated her cold coffee in the microwave then went back to her old comfortable chair. She steadily increased the volume of the television, covering up the silence. She didn’t have to worry about disturbing the neighbors—she didn’t have any. The only protesters would be the small animals playing tag in the dirt and gravel driveway.

Artificial, canned laughter filled the rooms of the too-large house, sweeping cobwebs from the dusty corners. Tori leaned back in the recliner, coaxing the footrest to come out of hiding. Each passing, uneventful minute brought a decrease in her heart rate. She started to question her own hearing, her own logic, at last convincing herself either she hadn’t heard what she thought she had, or it was on the television.

She spotted a bottle on the table next to her chair.
Maybe I’ll just pop a Benadryl, get a little drowsy and then go to bed.

Television infomercials took up the next forty-five minutes. She shifted into neutral and the spinning wheels of her brain slowed to an idling phase. Her purple-shadowed eyelids grew leaden. Less than an hour after her gut-wrenching terror, Tori was snoring softly. She never heard the mournful sigh echo throughout the house.

Chapter Two

A persistent, annoying pounding crashed through the delightful dream Tori was smiling through. Groggily, she opened her eyes, only to be momentarily blinded by fierce, radiant beams of sunlight falling through the window. She rubbed her eyes like a small child, still wearing a grin which dissolved with the next series of hammer-blows on the front door.

Tori glanced at the clock next to the TV as she climbed out of the chair.

Wow, I can’t believe I slept that long.

Without looking to see who the impolite, irritating person was on the other side, she pulled the door open.

Her hair was a wind-tossed bird’s nest and she was shifting papers to keep her claim on them, Lydia glared at Tori.

“Oh. My. God! It’s eleven o’clock and you’re still asleep! Great. I went to all the trouble of making lunch reservations and now we won’t get there on time. Wonderful, Tori, just bloody wonderful!”

Tori threw her arms around her disgruntled friend and pulled her into the room. She lightly kissed Lydia’s cheek as she closed the door.

“Good morning, dear, sweet,
understanding
, Lydia. I’m so happy to see your bright, cheerful face.”

Lydia Palmer struggled to maintain the look of stern disapproval for her young client’s behavior.

“Don’t start with me, Victoria Lynn Stanfield! Good thing I told you I’d pick you up for lunch or you would’ve stood me up—again. I know it’s tough being a writer but you absolutely have to get your priorities straight. Stop that insane grinning, will you?
Mon Dios
, you’re driving me to drink! Speaking of which, be a dear and fix me a screwdriver, okay, love?”

Tori laughed merrily. She leaned over to pinch the agent’s cheek and Lydia tried, in vain, to slap the hand away.

“Now, now, Lydia! Play nice. A screwdriver? At eleven o’clock in the morning? Kinda early, isn’t it?”

Lydia expelled air through her surgically perfect nose.

“Some of us do not sleep away an entire day, Tori. Some of us get up very early and have accomplished many important things by eleven o’clock in the morning. Besides, a screwdriver has orange juice, a regular breakfast beverage. Okay? Now stop acting like my mother and fix your agent a nice drink.”

Tori spun on her heel and headed for the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Lydia wouldn’t be too happy about it but that was just too bad. Tori knew her friend disliked American coffee and only drank tea, when she could be persuaded to drink anything non-alcoholic. This morning, though, Miss Snooty wasn’t going to get her way. It was going to be coffee or nothing.

Lydia kept up a steady stream of conversation as Tori measured coffee grounds in the filter. She could imagine her friend’s words, had she been in the room with her.