Archetype (11 page)

D
eclan stands to take our dinner plates and I finally find the nerve to speak.

“I decided to do it.”

He laughs and returns to his seat. “You can’t hit me with a conversation without a topic first.”

It has been more than a week since he gave me the studio, and though I spend a lot of time trying to reach a decision, we never talk about it.

I give him a tilted smile. “Sorry. The show. For my paintings.”

He sits up straighter and blinks at me in surprise.

“I have waited too long to decide,” I say. “It is too late?”

“No. No, of course not. I told you to take your time.” He smiles and takes my hand. “I assumed you didn’t want to because you didn’t answer right away, but I’m glad you decided to do it.”

He stands again and turns away with our plates. “Did you decide on a theme?”

I meet him at the sink and take the rinsed plates from him. I am sliding them into the dishwasher when I say, “You will not like it.”

“Why would you think that?”

I avoid his eyes. “I want to paint the beaches.”

The paintings are all I can think about. Them and Tucker, which adds to my guilt daily. I think I must paint the beaches to get them out of my system once and for all. A way of giving myself completely to my marriage. I think I paint them because each stroke of the brush brings me closer to the truth behind the dreams. Are they memories of a past I am better off without? I know I paint them because in them all my blank spaces are gone. Filled. Complete.

Declan passes over the rinsed silverware in silence. After a few tense moments, he leans his hip into the counter and folds his arms. “It’s not that I don’t like them, Emma, but I wonder why you have such a fascination with them. And you put so much more time and care into them.”

I force myself to meet his eyes. “It is nothing more than what I told you the first time. The photograph in my old room. Most of my earliest memories since waking from the accident are centered around it.”

“Are you sure that’s all?”

I do not understand his disbelief in my words, though his distrust is completely justified. I will never tell him how I dream of another man on a beach. A man whom I may or may not have had an affair with.

“What other reason would there be?” I ask.

He shakes his head and turns away. “None, I guess. I’m just being paranoid.”

I want him to elaborate why he feels this way, but I sense a warning from Her, though She has not voiced anything. I need to let this subject drop. I have gotten what I wanted and should leave it at that.

I close the dishwasher and reach out to embrace him. “You know . . . in all this time, we have never made love in front of the fireplace.”

His grin is quick and I am off my feet a heartbeat later. He carries me toward the blazing fire. “That’s a serious problem I intend to fix immediately.”

 • • • 

It is the first time outside air has touched my face since early winter, but this is not my biggest shock. It is seeing Richmond for the first time. It is well into the evening, but the city is bright enough to hide the night sky. Lights run along every corner and angle along every building in sight. Windows glow on every floor for hundreds of stories.

The Christmas holiday is upon the city. Trees with lights or snowmen or snowflakes or angels decorate every street corner. More lights drape over entire intersections in wide arcs. Holiday carols play from a hidden speaker system over the nearly silent hum of traffic.

I cannot walk because I want to soak everything up. Declan said we could port directly to the studio, but I wished to see the holiday lights. I am glad he relented, even with some nervousness on his part.

Declan’s hand runs over my back. “You okay?”

“It is beautiful.” My voice barely rises over a whisper.

He scans the area. “Yes.” He squeezes my hand very briefly. “Come on. Remember to stay close, all right?”

I nod and link my fingers through his. The sidewalk is thick with bodies—male bodies. There are women, but they are few and far between, and almost all of them tote small male children with them.

The one common feature of both sexes is the hunched shoulders and tightening of coats against the brisk wind blowing down the street. The snow has melted, but the temperature is not better. The wind slapping my skin feels like it is loaded with icicles.

While we stroll along, I take in more of the street details. Digital parking meters sit in front of diagonal spaces all along the row. A red glow in the boxes reads
$10.25
PER HALF HOUR
. Every space is full and the meters show varying minutes left.

In the center of each block, attached to a pole in the ground, is a large square screen. On it is a picture of a newspaper booth with a sign that reads
RICHMOND TIMES
. Along the bottom, the screen reads
$5
PER DOWNLOAD
. A heading crosses the screen in bold letters:
BURKE ENTERPRISES BACK UP AND RUNNING AFTER LARGEST ATTACK TO DATE
. Under the caption is a picture of the glass-and-steel building we just came from.

I glance up at Declan, who watches the thick cluster of people while maneuvering us through. Burke Enterprises was attacked? There must be some mistake, because he has not mentioned this.

“Declan?”

He glances down quickly and says, “Yes?”

“What does that mean?” I point to the
Times
download center. “Is that about your company?”

Declan does a double take when he reads the screen and purses his lips. A second later, I am moved to his other side and he curses under his breath.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “Something that happened months ago. Around the time of your accident.”

“Was it bad?”

“Emma, I really don’t want to get into it.”

I cast my gaze down. “Of course. I am sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” His tone is angry underneath forced patience. “Damn it. I’m sorry. It’s just been a nightmare for months, but honestly, I’m not upset it happened. I mean, I am—the money lost was insurmountable—but it changed my life.” He looks at me with a softer expression. “I wish I could explain it to you.”

“It is none of my business.” Down the block, the art gallery comes into view and I point, grateful I can change the subject. “Is that it?”

Declan angles us toward the front of the building with a solid window front and an old-fashioned swing-open door and bell. It is toasty warm inside the large, open space. Long cushioned benches sit in front of every wall, perfectly centered under various pieces of art. Photographs hang as well as paintings. It is a mash-up of styles, and I love it.

“Mr. Burke?” A man appears through a sliding door in the back, a wide smile flashing under a large salt-and-pepper mustache. “Right on time.”

“Did you receive the piece I sent this afternoon?” Declan asks the man while shaking his hand.

“Yes.” He glances at me, his smile twitching like he is having a hard time holding it. “Is this the artist?”

“My wife, Emma. Emma, this is Harold Geist.”

I shake his sweaty, plump palm and resist running my hand over my long coat. “Hello, Mr. Geist. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

His smile firms. “So polite.”

“Mr. Geist,” Declan says, “why don’t you and I go talk while Emma looks around?”

The two men leave me standing in the center of the room alone. I spin slowly, looking at several of the pieces hanging under long lights that illuminate each piece in a soft glow.

“May I take your coat?”

The woman’s voice makes me jump. She seemed to come from nowhere. She holds out a hand expectantly and avoids my eyes. Her face is made up in an almost natural coating of makeup and her hair is pulled back into a tight bun. She must be close to my age—somewhere in her mid- to late twenties.

I do not really want to give up my one source of warmth, but I do not think she will go away until I do. I shrug out of the heavy black coat and she disappears with it through a door I had not seen previously.

Alone again, I smooth my hands over my black slacks and straighten my fitted red top. The material is thin and the chill of winter reaches me despite the heat in the room. I fold my arms and run my palms over them for warmth.

It does not take me long to circle the entire room, and by the end I am in awe of the talent displayed. I do not know what made me think my paintings were good enough to show here. The pieces displayed are extraordinary. Even the abstract paintings, which I have never been fond of, are amazing. I find myself studying brush strokes and colors used to create shadows and highlights. Textures.

The front bell rings and I turn my head automatically to see who has come in. A man shuffles in with a slight limp on his left side. He stands in the doorway, holding the door open. I am midway into the space, but the winter has already sucked the heat out.

I am annoyed that he will not close the door and mean to say something but stop to give him a better look. Something about him niggles the back of my mind, but I cannot place him. Skin the color of milk chocolate, dark curls trimmed close, and a patch of thick beard growth covering the lower half of his face.

I turn and face him, eyes narrowed on the man, who watches me with an identical quizzical expression.

“I am sorry, but do I know you?” I ask. “You look familiar.”

“You”—he shuffles on his feet and tilts his head—“know me?”

“I do not know.” I look more carefully, searching for something to place him in my memory.

He limps closer but continues to hold the door open. “Wade?”

The name snaps my spine into a straight line. “What did you call me?”

“Wade. Emma Wade.”

That is when I see his eyes. They are blue, almost gray. I do know him, but this is impossible. He is a dream, only he no longer wears the black uniform of a soldier. There is no light of easy friendship in his eyes. Only shock and confusion. He mirrors my emotions completely.

“How do you—?”

Voices sound from the back of the room and echo forward. Declan laughs with the gallery manager about something. Foster—if that is who this man truly is—stiffens at the sound. His gaze darts behind me and I follow it. The two men are walking back into the gallery, unaware of what occurs with me and the man letting the winter in.

When I turn back to the front, Foster is gone, and had I not felt the chill of winter on my face, I would have thought I had just imagined my dream come to life.

I
do not think.

I run.

Foster cannot have gone far, and I must know why he thinks I am Emma Wade. Why I dream of him and the man named Tucker. How I am connected to all of their lives.

The wind is biting cold and I shoulder through the mass of bodies on the sidewalk. I push against the tide of street goers, trying to peer around and up over. I am in heels and still cannot see over some of these men.

When I cannot find Foster, I try moving with the crowd. This is easier, but I am still unable to find him. “Come back!” I yell.

“Emma!”

Declan’s voice is muffled by the sounds of cell phone conversations and blaring horns and the whir of electric car engines and holiday carols sounding through speakers. The
Times
download center tells a man to “scan reader now” in a kind male voice.

I ignore everything and push my way to the road and step off the curb. A cold puddle of water sloshes up over my foot and soaks the inside of my shoe. I ignore the sting of cold around my toes and spin to take in the area one more time. He has to be here. Why did he run?

“Emma!”

Declan’s worry is clear in his tone now and jolts me back to reality. I am looking for a man who should not exist. This is foolish. He is a figment of my imagination.

A figment you gave a beard?
She asks.
Oh, and the added limp was a nice touch, Emma. Gave him character.

Stop it.

I run back up onto the curb. The men walking by are practically unyielding and growl horrible things to me as I try to get back to the gallery. I find Declan halfway there, spinning and looking frantically for me just as I had been doing a moment ago for Foster.

When he sees me, his shoulders slump and he rushes over to me. “What are you doing?”

“A man dropped his wallet,” I say. “I was returning it.” How easily the lies come now.

He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t run off like that.”

“I am sorry, but I—”

He kisses my forehead. “I know. You are too kind for your own good sometimes. Come back inside. You’re freezing.”

Outside the gallery, my painting sits in the window. My name scrolls along a gold plate below it. It is the re-creation of the beach sunset. Declan told me only that he sent a piece over; he did not mention which one. I would have kept this one, but it is too late.

A hologram flashes along the bottom of the glass and a message appears. My name and a date for a month from now run horizontally, announcing my show.

“That was fast,” I say, my chest tightening.

“Come on.”

He pulls me inside, and I do not realize how frozen I am until I am surrounded by the heat. Tiny pinpricks of pain tingle all over my body as blood rushes to warm me. An uncontrollable shiver races through me and my teeth chatter.

Declan takes my coat from the woman, who has appeared out of nowhere. “Here, put this on.”

While I bundle up with my coat and scarf, Declan thanks Mr. Geist and promises to send more pieces soon for his approval.

“I need to go to my office,” Declan tells me. “You can come if you want, or you can take a teleporter from here and wait for me at home.”

“Can I go with you?” I have always wondered what his office looks like.

“Of course.”

Outside, Declan takes us back to his office building. The lights are low in the lobby, hinting that admittance will not be permitted, and men sit behind a semicircular desk. When we enter they stand and nod. The transporter room is in a long marble hallway behind them.

He keys in the number 182 and we appear in a new hallway with a carpeted floor. At the end of the hall is a set of glass doors that slide open when we approach. We enter a room with plush leather furniture and a mahogany desk that sits empty except for the tablet propped on a dock station, a phone, and a small potted plant. The surrounding walls are silver with thick and thin black lines weaving around one another. When I look closer, I realize it is designed to look like the room is one large computer chip. I am surprised by this, when our home is so warmly decorated.

Declan waves a hand over a panel and another door opens. “This is my office.”

I follow him into a room that—other than the furniture—looks nothing like his receptionist’s office and find myself in the center of a massive water tank. I backtrack without thinking. My heart pounds against my ribs and my eyes burn with tears.

Declan follows me quickly. “What is it?”

I swallow back my tears. “You work in—in a tank of water?”

He laughs. “No. It’s a projection. Actually, it’s a screen saver. My computer is asleep. Come see.” I do not move, but he returns to his office and says, “Computer, wake to desktop.”

The wall behind his desk transforms to the color azure. Tentatively, I step back inside to see all of his walls are exactly the same.

“Computer,” he says again, “go back to sleep.”

He takes my hand as the walls return to the water tank. I stiffen, and if he notices, he does not say anything. It is nothing more than an aquarium tank with colorful fish and plant life swaying gently from fake pebbled floor to ceiling. Bubbles float from the bottom and pop on the top. It looks very real but is nothing like the tank in my dreams.

“See?” he says and releases my hand. “Just a projection.”

“How do you work on a computer that needs all four of your walls? Why do you not have windows?”

“Computer, show meeting space.”

Behind his desk, floor-to-ceiling windows project from one corner to the next. If I had not known better, I would have thought the view was real. Displayed across the wall is the very city we just came from minutes ago, lit with holiday lights.

“It projects real-time visuals,” he says, standing with hands tucked in pockets, his gaze on the street below.

The wall to my right is nothing more than a screen, and it rises to hide in the ceiling. The room expands from behind this false wall, adding two couches, two chairs, a bookshelf, and a wet bar.

What surprises me most are the paintings under lights along the wall opposite the projected window. They are mine, early versions of our mountain view from home. Sunrise peeks over the ridges, and a mist cascades through snow-heavy trees. I’d painted three to hang side by side like a panoramic photograph, then tucked them away with a few others I never cared for.

“When did you take these?” I ask.

Declan wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on my crown. “A while ago. They’re my favorites. I figured you wouldn’t care. You threw them in a closet,” he adds with a chuckle.

“They are not very good.”

“I respectfully disagree, as would a lot of my associates.” He kisses my head and lets me go. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

Declan perches on the edge of his desk, facing the now closed door, and picks up a tablet computer. “My new security system should have gone live a half hour ago. I just want to check it out. This company I hired is incredible, or they’d better be for the time and money I’ve put into them. It’s taken them damn near six months to get set up. That attack you saw in the paper? Never would have happened had I not taken so long to decide.”

I drape my coat over one arm and look at the tablet from over his shoulder. I do not understand a thing he is looking at other than it being a list of some kind. Locations maybe, but under names only he and his staff must understand.

“What is so special about them?” I ask.

“Let’s see if I can show you.”

He taps the top name, and the schematic of a tall building fills the screen. He shifts from infrared to ultraviolet to what looks like a grid. There are several tiny red dots throughout the building’s grid, and he taps on two near the top. The lens zooms in on them, and when he swipes a hand over the screen from bottom to top, the image seems to fly onto the wall in front of us.

Holy shit,
She whispers.
He did it. He really fucking did it.

I know She is not referring to how Declan managed to make the image appear on the wall—I have seen him do this at home on occasion—so who “he” is, is a mystery to me.

“What are we looking at?” I ask.

The screen wall to the extended room slides back down, and Declan taps the screen a few more times until the image is real time, real life, and all around me. It
is
me. And him, too, of course. We are looking at ourselves.

“Computer,” he says, “full screen.”

I spin slowly, mouth agape, watching myself spin on every wall.

“Three hundred and sixty degrees in every room, in every building, for miles around every property,” Declan says. “At least that’s what it says on the brochure.” He stands and looks around. “My security team has access to most of it. There are certain places, of course, I’d prefer they didn’t see. Like my office, for example.”

My stomach turns. “You have done this to our home, too?”

He shakes his head. “No, not yet. That’s next. I debated it for a while because its location is secret and extremely remote. But with the resistance from the west continually coming after my holdings, I don’t want to chance it. Especially if you’re going to be home more.”

I do not know how I feel about this. “You could see me at home whenever you wanted. I would have no privacy?”

“It will be limited to the main room and the outer area, but yes, I could see you. Your workspace is private with the exception of the alert to my phone. The holograms interfere with the system or something.”

“The hospital?”

He nods. “Up and running as of a half hour ago.”

“What was wrong with your security before?”

“Wide-angle lenses aren’t enough these days. Attacks come from all directions.” He runs his fingers over the screen, and the angle of the room turns and twists, showing that he could look up my skirt if I were wearing one. “I can go anywhere and see from any direction.”

“Impressive. What is the name of the company you are using?”

“Tucker Securities.”

My knees weaken and I brace my hand on the desk. “Tucker?”

It is only a coincidence. It has to be.

Was Foster a coincidence, too?
She asks.

Images from the dreams—
memories?!
—of a beach and a faceless man whose last name is Tucker bombard me. I can almost feel his touch, the heat of his body. And because Foster called me Emma Wade before running off earlier, I have to believe it is possible. But is the man responsible for Declan’s new security?

I cannot even think it, let alone believe it. Life would not be so cruel as to put an old lover in the same vicinity as my husband. My kind husband who deserves no less than my complete devotion.

Declan is absently returning the screen to normal, though we are still looking at ourselves. “Brilliant man. If he wasn’t already running his own business, I would have hired him a long time ago.”

I am about to ask the man’s full name, but Declan places the tablet on the desk and gathers me into his arms.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He kisses my neck and tugs my shirt up. “What does it look like?” His grin is on the devilish side, and he nods at the wall, showing me exactly what we are doing.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Very.” His mouth is back on my neck. “Nobody can see but us.”

I do not like this and push out of his arms. “I cannot do this here.” My words are shaking and I have to grip the desk behind me again to steady my hands. “I am sorry, but I— I just cannot do this.”

Something is very wrong with this, and more than just my aversion to watching us have sex in his office. Too much has happened tonight, the biggest shock being my run-in with Foster. There is no shortage of impact in hearing the name Tucker slip from my husband’s tongue, either. I have to find out what is going on. If only I knew how I was going to do that.

Declan kisses me lightly on the mouth. “Okay, I’m sorry. You ready to go home?”

I nod. I am very ready to go where no one is watching. Even if it is only a computer.