Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) (52 page)

It made all kinds of sense to Kathryn, though it wouldn't have just a few months ago. But her time at Charon's Crossing had taught her a great deal about love so intense and deep that it could change the way you viewed life... even if that love hadn't been real.

"Kathryn?" Beverly's voice trembled. "Please, don't hate me. If you only knew how often I've regretted the lie..."

Kathryn clasped her mother's hands. "I don't hate you." Tears stung behind her eyelids. "I just wish I'd known... I mean, he must have died, thinking I'd never answered his letters because I didn't love him."

"No. No, I told him the truth, just before he had the accident. He called me, God only knows why, and he asked how you were and before I knew it, I told him you were fine, no thanks to him or to his letters and all the presents he'd sent over the years because I'd never let you know about them." She gave a strangled laugh. "Lord, he was so angry! We screamed at each other over that phone, just the way we had in the old days, and then he stopped yelling and said he missed me something awful and he was going to come and see us both."

"But he never had the chance."

"No, he never did." Beverly sighed. "So you see, darling, it wasn't so strange that Trevor left you Charon's Crossing. He probably thought that old house was wonderfully romantic, the perfect final gift to leave the daughter he loved."

Kathryn nodded. She knew better than to try and speak. Her throat was so tightly constricted that it hurt.

"Of course," Beverly said with a little smile, "he was as wrong about that as he'd been about most other things in his life. The house wasn't romantic at all, it was a miserable ruin."

"Maybe," Kathryn said in a choked whisper, "but I was happy there."

"Nonsense," Beverly said quickly. "You
thought
you were happy there."

"That's what I meant. Mother, stop worrying. I'm just a little edgy today, that's all. I guess it's the prospect of that interview tomorrow morning."

"I know the perfect stress-reducer." Beverly grinned and looped her arm around her daughter's waist. "How's about we go someplace down and dirty for supper? That diner, down near the river, maybe. How's that sound?"

"It sounds terrific," Kathryn said, hoping she sounded more eager than she felt.

"And first thing tomorrow, you'll phone Dr. Whalen, yes? Just to touch bases, darling, that's all."

Kathryn nodded. "Of course."

* * *

But she didn't call the psychiatrist, not the next day or any of the days that followed.

How could she, without admitting that she was obviously slipping backwards after so many weeks of progress?

Matthew was constantly in her thoughts. She had begun dreaming of him again, too. She'd hear him whispering her name, feel the sweet brush of his lips against hers, and then she'd wake up, weeping quietly in the night, reaching out for him even though she knew it was impossible for him to be there.

Tell stuff like that to Dr. Whalen and she was liable to find herself in a genteel rubber room.

On her own, she raised the level of her medication to what it had been when she'd first entered therapy. The pills made her groggy but they helped. She stopped dreaming, started sleeping through the night.

"I am fine," she told herself.

And she was. She started her new job—the interview she'd told Beverly about had gone well—and, a month later, she moved into a wonderful apartment in Soho. It wasn't the glass-walled, ultramodern sort of place that had once seemed so desirable. She'd looked at half a dozen of those, found them chillingly impersonal, and opted instead for an old, handsome duplex with a working fireplace, a brick-walled kitchen and wide-planked floors.

"A gem of the early 1800s," the realtor called it.

It wasn't a gem, not quite. The windows leaked, the floors sagged... but it reminded her of Charon's Crossing, and that was all that mattered.

The new job, the new apartment—both were great. Things went really well for a couple of weeks. And then, one afternoon, during a presentation meeting for a new client, she heard someone speak her name.

Kathryn?

She came sharply upright in her chair.

Kathryn, sweetheart. Where are you?

Kathryn's pen fell from her hand and clattered on the floor. The man next to her looked at her. Then he picked up the pen and nudged her in the ribs. She blinked and looked at him.

"You okay?" he whispered.

She nodded, took the pen and forced her attention back to the meeting.

I can't find you, love. I search and search, but I can't find you.

Kathryn's chair squealed as she shoved it back and shot to her feet. Eight pairs of eyes fixed on her wild-eyed, pale face.

"Miss Russell?"

She looked around the room. The CEO of the company they were trying to impress looked irritated. Her own boss was smiling but it was the sort of smile you saw on the face of a shark.

"I—I'm sorry," she said, "I thought I heard—"

Kathryn, my love. Where are you?

She flew from the room like a rocket, her assistant on her heels as she made for the elevator.

"Kathryn? Are you sick? Kathryn, what am I going to tell them?"

"Tell them anything you want," Kathryn said, as the elevator doors closed.

* * *

Dr. Whalen agreed to see her at once.

She listened. And listened. Then, finally, she spoke.

"What you're describing isn't uncommon, Kathryn," she said in her most soothing tone of voice. "We might describe these episodes as 'flashbacks.' "

"Flashbacks? I thought those had to do with real experiences."

Dr. Whalen looked momentarily flustered. "Not necessarily. I suspect this is your subconscious mind's attempt to come to grips with what happened to you."

"I don't understand, Doctor. Wasn't it my subconscious that created my hallucinations to begin with?"

The doctor cleared her throat. "It's complicated, Kathryn, too complicated for a layman." She scribbled something on a prescription pad, tore off the sheet and handed it over. "Have that filled and take one tablet three times a day."

"I don't want to take any more pills. They make me dopey. Isn't there something else I can do to stop these hallucinations?"

"Well," Dr. Whalen said thoughtfully, "I suspect you need to find closure for what happened."

"Yes, all right, but how?"

"You still own that property on Elizabeth Island, do you not?"

"The land, yes. The house..." Kathryn swallowed hard trying not to remember the flames. "The house is nothing but a pile of rubble."

"I would advise you to sell the property."

"Sell Charon's Crossing?"

"Yes. Get it out of your life, once and for all. Sign it away, physically, and there's an excellent chance you'll sign it away emotionally, too."

"But—"

The psychiatrist looked at her watch. "I'm sorry, Kathryn, I do have another patient scheduled." She stood up, smiled pleasantly, and held out her hand. "Sever your ties with that house, and you'll have both feet firmly planted on the road to complete recovery."

* * *

Amos was delighted to hear from her.

Everyone missed her, he said, and hoped she was feeling well.

Kathryn smiled at his delicacy, lied and said she was fine, and then got down to business.

"Amos," she said, "I very much want to sell Charon's Crossing."

"Really," he said, and chuckled. "That is wonderful news, Kathryn, truly wonderful. Olive's had an offer, you see, but we didn't know whether or not to contact you about it."

Kathryn sank down on the sofa in her old-fashioned living room. What had only been an idea had suddenly turned into a reality. She tried to feel happy about it but she could feel a knot of tension forming in her stomach.

"An offer?"

"From a hotel chain. They want to raze the ruins and put up a luxury retreat. I must say, they've made a most generous offer."

It was more than generous. It was extraordinary.

"Kathryn? Shall I fax you the necessary papers?"

Kathryn took a deep breath.

"No."

"No?"

She could hear the confusion in Amos's voice and she almost told him he was no more puzzled by her sudden change of heart than she was, but she didn't.

"I—I'll have to think about it," she said, and hung up the phone before the attorney could say anything more.

An hour later, she called him back.

"Sell it," she said quietly.

Amos hesitated. "Are you sure it's what you want, Kathryn?"

She nodded. "Yes. Send me whatever documents need to be signed and let's get it over with."

* * *

Amos kept her informed, every step of the way. She signed endless documents, faxed paper after paper to his Elizabeth Island office. It was almost anticlimactic when ownership of Charon's Crossing finally passed from her to the hotel chain that had bought it.

Beverly insisted on their having dinner together. "The past is over," she said, clinking her glass of white wine against Kathryn's.

Kathryn smiled. It wasn't. Not yet, though she didn't tell that to Beverly. The door to the past would not be firmly shut until the end of the next day, for that was when the equipment would be rolling in to tear down what remained of the mansion.

Beverly suggested they have coffee and dessert at her place but Kathryn begged off. She was tired, she said, and she had a long day ahead of her at the office. She didn't add that people had been looking at her as if she'd lost her marbles after the day she'd bolted from the meeting. She'd explained her actions by saying she'd had a terrifying migraine and even though everybody had said, oh, of course, they understood, the truth was that people still gave her odd looks.

"They should only see me now," Kathryn muttered as she paced her living room.

What in hell was the matter with her? Charon's Crossing was sold. It was out of her life forever.

She went to bed early, with the latest best seller and a cup of cocoa. She drank half the cocoa, read the same paragraph three times, gave up, and turned off the light.

A long time later, she fell asleep.

* * *

"Kathryn."

She knows exactly where she is, when she hears his voice. She is right here, in her own bed, and she can hear him as clearly as if he were right beside her. But he isn't.

"Kathryn, my love."

"Matthew? "

A hand brushes lightly over her cheek.

"Never forget me, sweetheart."

"Matthew!" Tears stream down her cheeks. "Matthew, where are you? Please, please, come to me. I love you. I need you..."

"Good-bye, my love. Good-bye."

* * *

Kathryn's eyes flew open. She sat up. It was a dream. It was nothing but a dream. Matthew had never been teal...

There, lying on the pillow next to hers, was a single pink rose, the kind that grew in such profusion over the arched trellis at Charon's Crossing.

* * *

Matthew was real.

He was real!

How could she have convinced herself of anything else?

She was shaking as she threw on her clothes. She had to stop them from razing the ruins of the mansion. If it was gone... if it was gone, Matthew would be gone forever.

Just before she left the house, she tried calling Amos, then Olive, then Hiram and anyone else she could think of on Elizabeth Island but she got only squawks and buzzes.

"Dammit," she said, slamming down the phone.

It was business as usual on the island... except that after today, Matthew would... he would...

No. She couldn't let herself think that way. She wouldn't let herself think that way and she didn't, not through the endless ride to the airport or the charter flight to the island.

"Hurry," she whispered as the plane wobbled to a touchdown. "Hurry," she demanded as the surprised gentleman who was on duty in the tin hangar handed over the keys to his Jeep after she'd shoved a one-hundred-dollar bill under his nose. "Hurry," she pleaded, as she jammed her foot to the floor and urged the Jeep to speeds undreamed of by its maker.

But it had all been for nothing.

She knew it as soon as she barreled through the gates and whipped the Jeep up the drive towards the house. She had arrived too late. She knew it with a sense of dread as cold and heavy as the fog that was rolling in from the sea.

A pair of huge bulldozers stood where there had once been a garden. And all that remained of Charon's Crossing was a heap of dusty stone.

Kathryn stopped the Jeep and lifted her hand to her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears as she climbed from the Jeep and walked slowly towards the chalky rubble. There were men working nearby. They looked up as she approached, their faces curious.