Stitches In Time (8 page)

three

The setting moon shone straight into her eyes, its light
undimmed by leafless branches and thin lace curtains. For the tenth time Rachel shifted position. She couldn't sleep. Overfatigue, too much to eat and drink .. . and the question Pat MacDougal had tossed off so nonchalantly.

The question must have occurred to Tony. Asking questions like that was part of his job. He hadn't mentioned it to her because he hadn't wanted to worry her, for there was only one logical answer.

Why was the man so anxious to retrieve the quilts? Because they were evidence of a crime more serious than theft.

Her weary brain went over the same path it had traced a dozen times before. She and Tony could identify the Alleged, but they had not actually seen him with the trash bag in his hands, so evidence even of theft would be circumstantial. If he could retrieve it there would be no physical proof to connect him with a case of ... aggravated assault? Rape?

The other crime, the one that carried the heaviest penalty, was one she shrank from naming even in thought.

So serious a case would surely have been reported. But Pat—damn him for having such a logical mind!—had accounted for that too. The theft of the quilts might not have been discovered. Even the owner might not realize something was missing from a seldom-visited storage area in an unused room. A police officer investigating another, more serious kind of crime wouldn't be likely to notice that a chest or box of linens was only half-filled. Especially a male police officer.

Rachel turned onto her back and glared at the ceiling. Such speculation was a waste of time and nervous energy. She had to get some sleep. It had been a tiring day, and tomorrow would be just as rushed; by now she was familiar enough with Cheryl's habits to anticipate the frantic scramble ahead, the last-minute packing, the forgotten tasks, the inevitable delays. Tony would be in a bad mood, fuming silently because he wasn't able to pitch in or help with the driving.

At first the voice was indistinguishable from the normal sounds of night, breathy as the movement of air in the branches, wordless as the wind. Then she heard, or thought she heard, words. Relaxing muscles tightened, propelling her out of bed. Without stopping to put on slippers or robe she headed for the stairs. Tony was down there, alone in his room, handicapped by the cast on his leg ...

The night lights in the shop left the room in semidarkness. The garments hanging from hooks glimmered, ghost shapes in the shadows; the mannequins in their trailing skirts and big hats looked unnervingly lifelike. A lifted hand seemed to beckon, a parasol tilted at a coquettish angle hid sly, peering eyes. Rachel stopped in the doorway, every sense alert. Not a breath of air stirred. A good thing, too, she thought, trying to keep her composure. If a drapery had fluttered or a sleeve had moved, she would have dropped in her tracks.

She heard no sound, from within the house or outside it. She told herself she must have been dreaming. She was wide awake now, shivering in the night-cool air; but the sense of imminent intrusion, of something demanding entry, did not diminish. She pressed the switch and the track lights overhead shone out, lighting the room like a stage set.

She went from one window to another, shading her eyes, looking out, seeing only the normality of nighttime. But her skin was prickling and her mind denied the evidence of her eyes; she could feel it there, waiting, wanting—demanding—to come in.

The sound came, not from without, but from behind her. She whirled around, lips parting in a cry she was too breathless with terror to utter.

"What's wrong?" His black hair was disheveled and his eyes were heavy with sleep, but he stood erect, steadying himself with the crutches instead of leaning on them. One hand rested on the pocket of his robe.

Rachel collapsed into the nearest chair. She was too short of breath to speak clearly; the words emerged in a whisper. "I'm sorry
I
woke you."

"I wasn't asleep." He swung himself toward her and stood by the chair looking down at her. "I'm the one who should apologize;
I
keep scaring you half to death, don't
I
? What are you doing down here?"

"I thought I heard something. A voice calling ... I must have been dreaming."

Tilting her head back to meet his eyes, she was acutely aware of his nearness, and of the ragged condition of the old summer nightgown that left her arms and shoulders bare. She had a long-sleeved flannel nightshirt in one of her suitcases, but she had been too tired to look for it.

"You're shivering," Tony said. "It's freezing in here. Put this around you."

Balancing on one crutch he reached out for the nearest thing at hand and threw it clumsily over her shoulders.

Rachel rose to meet it, feeling the time-softened fabric settle around her like an embrace. The movement brought her so close to him that his face became a patchwork of isolated elements—the dark eyes, wide with surprise or some other, stronger emotion; a lock of black hair, lightly frosted with silver, curving over his temple; the thin, sensitive lips framed by his mustache. Her hand moved of its own volition, fingertips gliding lightly over the sharp outlines of cheekbone and temple till they reached his hair.

The crutch clattered to the floor as he pulled her roughly against him, pressing the folds of cloth tight across her back and hips. His mouth fumbled across her closed eyes and along her cheek before it found hers with a violence that would have snapped her head back if she had not met it with matching violence.

How long it went on she never knew—an immeasurable eternity, a few seconds of actual time. Then the entire length of his body stiffened, unyielding as stone, and he pushed her away, his hand hard against her breast. Disgust, contempt, and outrage transformed his face. His raised hand shook. For a moment she thought he was going to strike her.

Then she heard the knock at the door.

Without speaking or looking at her again, Tony retrieved the fallen crutch and started for the door. As Rachel fled she heard him say, in a voice whose gruffness might have been attributed to legitimate annoyance, "What's the idea of turning up this time of night, you inconsiderate son of a gun?"

"I wouldn't have knocked, but
I
saw the lights," a voice murmured apologetically.

The door she closed behind her cut off the rest of the conversation. Clutching the covering around her shivering
body, she stumbled up the stairs. The old house was drafty; a finger of air from the window she had raised a healthy two inches curled around her face like an icy tentacle. She was about to drop the blanket—coverlet—whatever it was—that covered her shoulders to the floor when she identified it. The album quilt. Throwing it over a chair, she got into bed and curled herself into a tight knot under the blankets.

The late arrival must be the long-awaited Adam, living up to his reputation by turning up at a particularly inconvenient hour. What would he have done if he hadn't seen there were lights on in the house? Bunked down in the car? Gone to a motel?

It was possible that he had seen a lot more than the lights. Wouldn't a considerate visitor, turning up in the middle of the night, check to make sure someone was awake and receptive before he knocked? The glass panels on either side of the door would have given him a clear view of the interior of the room.

If he had seen them . . . Hot with shame and embarrassment, Rachel pushed the blankets back. He would certainly put the worst possible interpretation on that scene, and how could she blame him when she herself didn't understand why or how it had happened?

Sharing the same house with a man who had seen her for the first time in the arms of her friend's husband wouldn't be comfortable, but it was only a minor discomfort compared to the prospect of facing Tony the next day. The Cardozas were supposed to leave at noon. With luck she could avoid a direct confrontation for those few hours. Surely he would be as anxious to avoid it as she. Even if he didn't blame her for what had happened, the very sight of her would remind him of his moment of weakness. Another sort of man might shrug it off, but not Tony; his rigid conscience and old-fashioned values would give him hell.

A moment of weakness, nothing more. I am not going to blame myself, Rachel thought. It wasn't my fault,
I
didn't do it on purpose. It wasn't his fault either. It was no one's fault. It just happened. He hated himself for doing it, though. He looked as if he hated me. He pushed me away . . .

He pushed her away, so roughly she stumbled back and
f
ell to the floor. Bruised and breathless
she
raised herself on her hands and looked up at him. He stood over her, his booted feet braced and his fists raised.

"God damn you! I warned you—"

"You wanted it too. You still want me.
What's the
harm in it? It's all
I
have, you can't take it away from me."

She raised herself to her knees, reaching out with both arms as if
she would
embrace his thighs. His breath caught harshly, but he moved back, beyond her grasp. "I can't risk it. Not any longer. It never was important
—"

"Not to you?" Watching him,
she said again, in a
different voice. "No, not to you."

He hunched
his
shoulders
uneasily, tried to avoid
her eyes. "What did you expect? You're lucky to get off so easily. It could be worse, you know. It will be worse if you don't stop behaving this way."

Still on her knees she straightened her back and lifted her head. "Don't do this," she said, very softly. "I'm warning you."

"Are you threatening me?" His sullen, angry face relaxed into
incredulous
amusement. "Well. That settles it. I was willing to be accommodating if you behaved yourself, but that you should dare ... You've only yourself to blame. I've done all I can."

Turning on his heel he strode out, slamming the door behind him. For several minutes she did not move. Then she rose slowly to her feet and went to the bureau. The objects on it were in wild disarray as they always were; mechanically she set
them in order, bottles and jars and
brushes.
Before long she found what she wanted.

The clatter of childish footsteps and the babble of childish voices woke Rachel at dawn. Groggy from lack of sleep, at first she couldn't remember why she felt so terrible. A test for which she hadn't studied, gym class with that nasty Sue Collins making snotty remarks about her bra size . . . Maybe she could convince her mother she was sick . . .

When she got herself focused in time she felt even worse. There was no way of getting out of this one—no trusting parent to con, not even a hope of playing hooky. She heard Cheryl, trying vainly to hush the children— "You'll wake poor Rachel, let her sleep"—and let out a muffled groan.

They would have a nice day for the drive. The rays of the rising sun slipped into the room, strengthening the blues and greens of the braided rug, brightening the pattern of the quilt thrown over the chair. Averting her eyes from that reminder, Rachel headed for the bathroom.

The reflection of her drawn face and shadowed eyes made her turn from the mirror. How could anyone see that face and fail to suspect the truth? Only a few more hours, she reminded herself, and hid the dark circles with foundation, brightened the pale mouth with lipstick. Without makeup she looked so sickly Cheryl was bound to fuss over her. She couldn't stand sympathy from that source, not today.

Freezing her face into a smile, she went downstairs and was relieved to find only Cheryl, who was wiping the sink and looking infuriatingly relaxed. I'll go crazy if she dawdles like that all morning, Rachel thought. She had to force herself to speak casually.

"Don't bother with that, Cheryl, I'll finish cleaning up
after you leave. You musn't be late getting off. What can I do to help?"

"My goodness, you're bright and cheerful this morning," Cheryl said with a laugh. "You must have had a good, sound night's sleep."

"Yes."

"I'm glad you weren't disturbed. That rotten Adam turned up at two a.m., can you imagine? He woke poor Tony, fumbling at the door.
I
guess
I
can't blame Adam; he had no way of knowing Tony would be on the alert for funny noises, but honestly!"

"So he's here," Rachel said.

"Yes, he's here. Tony made him sleep in the other twin bed in his room so he wouldn't disturb us tramping around upstairs." The coffee had finished dripping. Cheryl poured two cups and sat down at the table. "Relax while you can," she said cheerfully. "The thundering horde will be back soon.
I
sent them outside because they were making such a racket. They're excited about the trip, naturally; but I want to let Tony sleep as long as possible. He had such a disturbed night."

Some imp in the distant cupboards of Rachel's mind jeered,
She doesn't know the half of it.
Quickly, stupidly, she said, "He—they are still asleep then."

"I hope so. Adam was snoring like a buzzsaw when I looked in on Tony this morning. I just about jumped out of my sneakers when
I
heard him. Tony never snores, and of course I didn't know anyone else was there. Tony was awake, poor baby, but I think I persuaded him to go back to sleep."

If she doesn't stop calling him poor Tony, Rachel thought. . .