Wilderness of Mirrors (37 page)

It was Friday. The restaurant would be crowded and she could lose herself in the monotony of work. Heading up the stairs into the light of the winter morning, she concentrated on what she could feel. On what was real. An icy wind. Snow. Not pain and screaming, thank God.

But the air above ground reeked of bus fumes, and it took her a moment to control an urge to vomit. Struggling to remember what her therapist had said, Fiona closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her mouth. When she exhaled, she repeated the mantra her therapist helped her create.

“I can see the sky. The meadows are green. The sea air is warm and salty.”

Stomach grudgingly under control, she reopened her eyes. People - mobs of them - bustled to and fro around Government Center. The large bricked area was dusted with a fine white powder.

Snow was good. It hid the dirt and grime.

Snow was clean. It had a fresh scent.

Fiona picked a new path across its increasingly marred surface and forced herself to forget the vision.

She’d had worse.

“Lose yourself in your work. It’s good for you.”

Again her therapist’s wisdom echoed through her mind. She was right, and because it was her therapist’s cousin who had been kind enough to employ Fiona, she was desperate not to disappoint either of them.

Hand on the chilled brass railing, Fiona headed down the long flights of stairs to Faneuil Hall. Christmas lights made the famous market more festive than usual, and she experienced a sharp sense of relief that decorations had been left up past the holidays. The lights reminded her of something, but like everything else about her past, the memory was an elusive, shadowy thing. Without thinking, she reached out and touched one of the bulbs. A second vision assailed her - this one an image of candles garnishing an ethereal fir.

The tiny flames spat and sizzled against an unexpected blast of arctic snow and air. A tall man entered the cozy space, his silver eyes laughing. She reached up for him and felt the warmth of his embrace fleetingly before the vision vanished in the puff of blown-out candles.

“Fuck.” The word, harsh and inappropriate, escaped her lips. Her therapist had laughed when she’d said it. Laughed and then, with censorious eyes, reminded her that respectable people didn’t use it unless they were alone or out of earshot.

But she didn’t suffer from the same rips in memory, the little tears which opened like paper cuts and closed again just as quickly, leaving the throb of hurt and frustration behind them.

Fiona whirled away from the lights and headed toward the wharf-side restaurant where she worked as a seafood buyer. The shops along the way were open, their heat escaping through doors displaying a dizzying array of items, all discounted.

Why?

Always, she would wonder why.

Four long years of speculating as to why this or that was done. Why everyday objects seemed wholly unfamiliar. Why her Gaelic and Norwegian pronunciations and vocabulary were so different from those of others. Why she had to learn English again. Why she hated physical contact. Why she had nightmare after nightmare about people who didn’t exist.

They’d tried to explain it - more than once. The police, that was. Explaining her situation to the fishermen who’d found her, explaining to her therapist, explaining over and over that her parents were dead. That she had been thought dead as well.

“She was kidnapped when her father’s yacht was hijacked on its way to Europe. Eight years later, she turns up - clinging to debris off the coast of Newfoundland. Likely been used for recreation by fishermen off George’s Bank and escaped when their ship broke up in a gale. Can’t remember much, poor girl, just babbled a lot of nonsense in Norwegian.”

Despite their explanations, it still made little sense.

She cursed again as her boot - a high-heeled affair donated to ‘The Fiona Cause’ - slipped on the slushy surface.

A firm hand clamped her upper arm, and Fiona gasped. The burn of the sommelier’s touch was far worse than the thought of crashing headlong into the cobblestones beneath her. She could never quite banish the hazy memories of assault, but four years of watching and practicing hadn’t been in vain and she forced a smile.

“Thanks, Sean. I think I’ve got it now.”

Her co-worker’s ruddy eyebrows conveyed doubt, but he let go and opened the door to the restaurant. “After you, Fi.”

She slipped into the elegant building. It was one of the oldest in Boston. Low. Brick. Full of character. Sitting on the edge of the harbor, it drew prosperous crowds of lunchtime businessmen, hedgefunders and attorneys who reveled in the sumptuous atmosphere and exquisitely presented seafood dishes.

Dinner drew a different crowd, but one no less prosperous. Red Sox pitchers, Patriot quarterbacks and Celtic point guards rubbed elbows with homegrown directors, aging rock musicians and up-and-coming actors. Local politicians were also frequent patrons, dropping in for a few pints of Guinness in the hopes of catching the fading rays of Camelot.

Despite her irrational fears and almost schizophrenic behavior, Fiona was able to navigate the pricey tableau with less trepidation than she felt answering her phone.

She dropped her bag and coat in the staff room and made a face at the morning’s newspaper. “That woman is everywhere.”

“What woman?” Sean tossed the lid to his Starbuck’s coffee into the recycling bin and peered over her shoulder.

Fiona pressed her finger into the fashion designer’s elegant face. “That one. Kirsten Sommer. A Vera Wang who can model her own clothes.” Something about her made Fiona physically ill.

Fortunately, the soothing scent of black Burundi Kayanza wafted up from Sean’s cup. “I never pegged you for the jealous type, Fi,” he teased, “But it says she’s heading for Milan, not Boston. There’s still time for you to have your way with me.”

Fiona flipped the paper and headed for the storerooms. “In your dreams.”

The sound of Sean’s chuckle followed her through to the chilling larder. Considering Sean was happily married, Fiona contemplated his real point as she searched for her keys. Why was she so rattled by a woman she’d never met? It wasn’t as though she was at a loss for interested men. Plenty of rich, good-looking, successful ones made overtures - not that she’d accepted any…

Still, Sean kept trying to get her to date. He’d even set her up with his brother - despite the fact the sommelier was loosely aware of Fiona’s problems.

He knew she hated being touched.

That she avoided talking about anything other than the mundane.

Unfortunately, he had little idea why.

Fiona had considered telling him about the patches in her memory. About the kidnapping. The rapes. But she’d never been able to bring herself to do it. Hell, she couldn’t remember them completely herself. They were sketches, vignettes of horror orchestrated by a blur of drunken, Danish fishermen.

Pushing away the distracting thoughts, she finally managed to unlock the door and process the previous day’s order. Everything was accounted for.

“Everything except the Scottish Salmon,” she breathed irritably.

“What?” Sean’s voice was muffled by the thick walls.

Fiona tapped the empty shelf with an unvarnished nail. She’d waited until nearly eleven the evening before for the delivery van from the airport. Only it had never come. She had hoped it would appear on the early morning truck. It hadn’t. Damn. She yelled back, “The salmon. It hasn’t come in yet.”

“Oh.” Sean’s voice edged toward a slurp. “Maybe it’s with the noon delivery.”

Maybe, Fiona considered bleakly, but it wasn’t like her to leave things to chance, so she dialed the Scottish number and texted a few choice words. Hopefully her supplier, Christian Ollason, would get the message and do something about it.

Captain Christian Ollason - Cadbury bar jammed between his straight white teeth - steered the 20-metre steel-hulled trawler into her slip exactly fifteen days after she’d left Lerwick Harbor.

“Perfect,” his first mate’s gruff voice cut through the cries of circling gulls and the whine of engines. “Just like me entering the port of a bonny lassie.”

His lewd comment brought forth a spatter of laughter that escalated when someone else yelled, “So what you’re saying, Finn, is you enter softly with a big splash ahead of your docking?”

More hoots and jeers broke out and Thorfinn reddened. “Watch your mouth, laddie,” he warned. “Remember you’re picking on our captain.”

“Nooo,” the voice shot back, “I’m picking on you.”

Thorfinn’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’re even dumber than you look, because I’m what’s standing between you and land.”

“Och, let them have a bit of fun, Finn,” Christian chuckled darkly, “They’ve earned it.”

Thorfinn scrutinized the spotless deck, looking for anything about which to complain. Unfortunately, they had done well, very well indeed, considering the European Union’s fishing bans. They’d filled the MV Tempest Fugit’s cargo holds with more than enough fish to line their own pockets with plenty of brass.

Satisfied that he’d made them squirm long enough, Thorfinn turned. “Well, get on your way then. Go on, only don’t blow it all on lager.” They cheered and clapped him on the back as they departed.

Christian folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the side of the wheelhouse. “Go with them, Finn. I’ll sort things out.”

“You sure?”

His captain’s grin was self-deprecating. “I’ve nothing else to do.”

Thorfinn eyed Christian. Closer to seven feet than not, strong, and able, with a Viking’s arresting looks, he could have had any woman he wished. Yet he was single. So chins wagged, some going so far as to say he had a cruel hand when the bottle took him.

But Thorfinn knew better. His captain’s mistress was the ocean. That, along with Christian’s uncanny knack for finding fish, made him the finest skipper on the North Sea.

In fact, if Thorfinn had been superstitious, he’d have believed their captain to be a selkie, part man, part seal. How else could he smell a cod at a hundred miles out?

“Aye, go on before I change my mind.”

Thorfinn slung his bag over his shoulder and stifled a yawn. “Right then, I won’t argue with you.”

Christian watched his first mate move down the pier. The weather was fine, warm for a winter’s day, and he drew off his thick sweater. He was nearly done tidying the lines when his pocket vibrated. Pulling out his mobile, he raised an eyebrow at the text message.

Where’s my order, you bastard?

It was Fiona. Elusive, enigmatic Fiona. The buyer at an upscale American seafood restaurant serving only the very best.

And Christian always had the very best.

Thrusting the mobile back into his pocket, he put off answering. Their yearlong relationship had been strictly via text messages. But lately, an oddly intimate note, one Christian couldn’t quite explain, had infused their words. Perhaps that was why they’d never spoken. The magic would end. She’d be pretentious, overly manicured and short. He’d be coarse, undereducated and far too tall.

It was better to dream. So Christian set to work with the image of a leggy, green-eyed Irish witch in his mind’s eye.

Eirik Vagard stared long and hard at the woman across from him. He couldn’t believe his eyes or good fortune. Elegantly dressed, she still managed to emit a wildness that made his throat constrict. Dark hair loosely gathered in a chignon, she was staring down at a chic menu with a glint of frustration in her green eyes. It was she. With the high-boned cheeks, flawless skin and tall, lithe figure - it had to be.

She had opened the restaurant’s back door to greet a fishing truck when he’d rounded the corner. He thought he was hallucinating. Then, after the initial shock, he waited, watching, until she exited the front door. He heard her call to the man working with her.

“Sean?”

“Yeah, Fi?” The man’s Boston accent was thick even without the use of the enigmatic ‘r’.

“What can we serve with Canadian salmon?”

Eyebrow raised, the man had sniffed. “Canadian salmon?”

She dropped the menu and glared out at Boston Harbor, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Yes, C–A–N–A–D–I–A–N salmon, Sean. Mr. ‘I’ve got a purrrfect crate fer ye, lassie’ hasn’t come through this time. What do you have in mind?”

Peering upward at the winter sky, ‘Sean’ had advanced on the cellar with an air of martyrdom. “I’m not a miracle worker.”

“Thank you… ” Her words of gratitude drifted off.

Eirik continued to watch as she restacked the menus outside the restaurant’s entryway. She was nervous. So much the better.

Fiona’s stomach was flapping like a landed fish.

A blond man had been loitering outside the restaurant. She’d seen him when she met the delivery truck around back. She’d also seen him when she glanced out the restaurant windows ten minutes later. At first, she thought he was meeting someone for lunch. But he never looked at anyone passing him by. He just stared at the restaurant. When she had opened the front door, his unsettling gaze fixed on her.

She could have told Sean, who’d have gladly walked over and asked him to clear off.

She could have gone back inside and ignored him.

Instead she braced herself and looked straight at him. “Can I help you?”

The man, handsome in a hardened way, studied her for a long moment before walking away. She felt the familiar press of fear weigh her down. The stranger had a long scar running down his face, and the bulge along his ribcage showed itself to be a black handgun when his turn lifted the flap of his leather jacket.

“You’re an idiot,” she muttered with angry desperation. “Now he’s gone, and no one’s seen him but you. It’s just another story to add to the fabulously fictional life of Fiona.”

She lifted her leaden legs and reentered the restaurant. He was nobody, she lied to herself. Nobody, just like her.

“Hej, Herre Mortensen,” Eirik spoke to his boss from an alleyway adjacent the restaurant, “I’ve found her. The woman in your painting. Ja.”