Dark Dreamer (18 page)

Lovers.
As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she groaned out loud. When the snow melted, she would go find the local lesbian watering holes and zone in on someone who also had sex on the brain. A short fling was exactly what she needed. No hassles. No complications.

A pair of feet in fluffy pink slippers halted in front of her and Phoebe held out a robe. She was wearing a cream chenille gown, not remotely seductive. Bundled into its sensible coziness, she looked adorable. “Want to take a bath with me?” she offered in a matter-of-fact tone. “There’s only enough hot water for one. I don’t mind sharing. Cara and I do it all the time.”

“Cara’s your sister.” Despite her best efforts, Rowe’s voice came out in a croak.

Phoebe shrugged. “It’s up to you. We can use Cara’s tub. It’s bigger than mine. Come see.”

Ignoring warning qualms, Rowe got to her feet, removed her sweater, and pulled the robe on over her shirt. A bigger tub might work out okay, she rationalized as she followed Phoebe upstairs. She had already seen Phoebe naked in a bath. What was the big deal about being in the water with her, naked limbs slithering? In Sweden no one worried about that kind of thing. They didn’t read sexual meaning into every nudity situation.

Cara’s bathroom belonged in a magazine, with its slate floor and huge, sunken oval tub set below a picture window. The room was very modern. Blown-glass art objects were backlit in recesses around the walls, and an amazing opaque glass hand basin perched on a black cast-iron stand.

Phoebe turned on the faucets. She had a dreamy expression in her eyes, as if anticipating something that was to be. “Choose some music,” she said, pointing at the opposite wall.

Cara had not only decorated her bathroom like it belonged in a state-of-the-art loft apartment, she had also installed a high-end sound system. Rowe was almost afraid to touch the sensitive equipment. Feeling like a klutz, she slid a Joss Stone CD into the player and adjusted the volume.

Phoebe glanced across her shoulder approvingly. “I like her. Can you believe she’s a white girl?” She twisted her hair into a knot and secured it on top of her head.

Rowe smiled. Nerves rolled through her gut. Phoebe seemed so calm, not a trace of ambivalence. No coyness. Her manner was warm but not flirtatious. This would be a very different story if it were Cara sitting on that step. Thank God it wasn’t. Rowe was instantly startled by the thought. Hadn’t she been pondering the merits of a fling with Cara? If anything, she should be feeling let down that she was in these promising circumstances with the wrong twin.

She met Phoebe’s eyes and for the first time noticed they were pink-rimmed, as if she’d been crying recently. Phoebe looked away and reached into the tub, trailing a testing hand through the water.

Watching the graceful motion of her arm and the arch of her neck, Rowe had a sense that Phoebe had invited her into this private world because she needed a distraction. She had not ventured out on a freezing day just for the hell of it. She had not asked Rowe over on an impulse, just because they met by chance on a walk. She had been coming to get her. She wanted company, but there was more to it than that. This bath was some kind of comfort ritual, something Phoebe would normally do with her sister, but Cara wasn’t here.

Rowe was not sure how she felt about being seen as a safe substitute. She was flattered that Phoebe trusted her enough to do this, but it was kind of dispiriting to be seen in such a sisterly light. Guilty that she couldn’t view Phoebe quite the same way, she said, “I’ll finish getting undressed in your sister’s room, if that’s okay.”

“Of course. It’s directly across the hall.” Phoebe smiled that faraway smile of hers. “Do you like bubble bath?”

Rowe hesitated in the doorway. The additional concealment of a foam layer versus the flowery scent?

“You don’t,” Phoebe concluded. “That’s okay. We have fragrance-free soaking salts.”

“Now you’re talking.”

As she left the room, Rowe noticed Phoebe hit a switch on the wall near the tub. The lights promptly dimmed to a level that would make getting naked into the bath less of an ordeal. Thankful, she crossed the hall to Cara’s bedroom. Also a designer statement, the room was an expensive blend of Japanese and modernist design. Cara had done her best to convert her part of the house into the kind of apartment she wanted to live in. The décor didn’t really suit the place but was striking all the same.

Rowe folded her clothes and sat them on a black lacquered chair. The piece was astounding, a subtle pattern of cranes in translucent jade tones visible only when you drew close. She lifted her clothing back off the gleaming surface, uneasy about littering a costly work of art with her laundry. Instead she dropped everything on the floor just inside the door.

Tying her robe tightly, she crossed the hall and found Phoebe standing naked at the tub, one foot extended into the water. She looked like a nymph. Rowe stepped back and knocked like she hadn’t seen anything, giving her time to reach for a towel.

“Come on in.” Phoebe turned slightly. She made no attempt to cover herself. “I left the shower running for you.”

Rowe closed the door behind her, throwing the room into merciful near darkness. She knew her face was bright red. Avoiding the thin pools of light seeping from behind the glass objects around the walls, she removed her robe, hung it on a hook, and quickly entered the glassed-in shower. It was lined with slate, the same as the floor, and had the kind of luxurious European fittings Rowe wanted to use when she got around to renovating her bathroom at the cottage.

She soaped and scrubbed herself methodically, almost unable to believe she was doing this. Again she contemplated Phoebe’s invitation, finding it difficult to accept at face value. Surely her neighbor was not so naïve she thought bathing with a woman who was not her sister fell into the same innocent category as taking a sauna with strangers at the gym. Was this a seduction minus the flirtatious overtures? Was Phoebe playing it cool and expecting Rowe to make the first move? No, that would presuppose she had been overwhelmed by Rowe’s stoic charm and wanted her. Highly unlikely.

For a split second she contemplated getting out of the shower, getting dressed, and going home. Then she decided to act like a grown-up. She had no plans to go to bed with Phoebe, and she was perfectly capable of leaving if things got uncomfortable. Resolutely, she turned off the jets and stepped out onto a toweling mat.

Phoebe had lit a candle and placed it on the window ledge above the bathtub. A pale gold halo shimmered on the misted glass behind. She was sitting on the edge of the tub, candlelight dancing across the graceful arch of her back, her small pale breasts and slender thighs. She rose and extended a hand. Rowe took it.

They climbed into the tub together and, facing one another, sank down into the hot water. This was bizarre, Rowe decided. In fact, it was completely surreal. She slid her legs to one side, angling herself slightly away from Phoebe to face the door. For a long moment they sat stiff and unmoving. Rowe could smell a sweet, musky fragrance. The scent was faint, probably coming from one of several bottles of oil lined up next to a burner on the ledge below the window. She closed her eyes and tuned in to the Aretha-like voice of the British soul singer.

An odd sadness assailed her then, a sense that this was all wrong. She was sharing a bath with a woman who was not her lover, in a home that was not hers, on an island she’d run away to. Her work was shit, her personal life a disaster. Her days drifted by, carrying her like a disinterested passenger to a future that seemed more and more like an accident of fate, not the tomorrow she had planned for herself.

She sifted through memories trying to find one that would serve as an anchor, confirming that she had once known certainty and contentment and would know it again. There was a time when everything had seemed perfect, when she’d thought she was on the fast track to permanent happiness. She had just made the New York Times Best Seller list and had found herself living in her own garden apartment in the West Village, dating women who claimed to adore her. It was her first summer in her new home. She had sent her parents on an expensive cruise and given her brother a new car.

Rowe woke up one magical morning after making love all night with an intelligent, charming woman who wanted her to give up horror novels and write poetry. Out in her tiny walled-off garden, surrounded by jasmine and roses, she’d written a couple of stanzas, just to see if she could. They were so ridiculous, so dismally trite, that she had laughed at herself. Her pleasure was completely unburdened by doubt. In that moment, she had known exactly who she was and she had liked that person. How could she have lost her confidence so completely?

“What are you thinking about?” Phoebe asked.

“I was having angst.”

“About your book?”

“Not exactly. My book is more of a consequence than a cause.”

“A consequence of what?”

Rowe hesitated, wondering how she would sound if she told the truth. Like an idiot, no doubt. “I’m not really sure,” she said, chancing it. “I feel like I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in the wrong future.”

Phoebe lifted a sponge from the water and slowly squeezed its contents over her back and shoulders. “What was the right future?”

“Good question. I thought I knew. For a while, I felt like I was on the right path and all I had to do was stick to it.”

“Maybe you did. Maybe you’re still on it.”

“You’re suggesting everything is just part of a bigger plan?”

“Perhaps. I mean, we can only ever know that in hindsight.”

Rowe relaxed back against the tub, finally getting used to the idea that she was naked with Phoebe. “I saw you and Cara on TV,” she said, steering the conversation away from her sense of failure.

“What do you mean?”

“A couple of nights ago. Some serial killer was arrested by the FBI and there you were.”

Silence. In the wavering shadows, Phoebe’s face looked rigid.

“Is everything okay?” Rowe asked.

“Yes. I was just…surprised. I had no idea we were filmed.”

“You guys must be pretty pleased with yourselves, getting that woman out alive. Amazing.”

“Yes,” Phoebe’s voice sounded thin.

“I was wondering. How did you persuade them to let Cara come along?”

A long pause. “It wasn’t like that. I asked Cara to meet me at the location afterward. I get kind of stressed sometimes, and it helps if she’s there.”

Rowe could tell there was much more to it than that. “What was your role? I mean, you were obviously right in the middle of the action. What does a forensic botanist do in that kind of case?”

Phoebe toyed with the sponge. “Well, I’m not usually right there when an arrest is made. This case was a bit different. My boss invited me along because my work really helped lead us to the killer.”

“I’m impressed. So plants revealed stuff about this guy? Fascinating. What was the biggest clue?”

“I really can’t discuss it. You know, before the case goes to trial.”

She sounded so jumpy, Rowe dropped the subject. “Sure. Understood.”

Phoebe swirled water absently with one hand, then heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry. It’s all bullshit,” she blurted. “I’m not a botanist. That’s just a cover. I’m an analyst. In the Intelligence field.”

Rowe wanted to act cool, but it was hard with her mouth hanging open. “You’re some kind of secret agent?” she managed eventually.

“No. Nothing like that,” Phoebe mumbled. “I can’t discuss my work. I’m with Homeland Security.”

“Jesus.” Rowe could hardly get her head around it. Never in her wildest dreams would she have guessed Phoebe was a member of the intelligence community. “What about Cara? Is she in your line of work as well?”

“No. The MTV stuff is her real job.”

“So this nutjob serial killer—was he a terrorist as well? Or is that something you can’t talk about?”

With another sigh, Phoebe drew her knees up and rested her head on them. “I wish I could tell you everything, but I can’t.”

“No problem.” Rowe made it sound like she didn’t care. “I don’t want you saying anything you’ll regret later.”

“Thank you.”

“I guess it must be kind of a fine line, trying to figure out what you can and can’t talk about.” She tried to put Phoebe at ease. “You have the trial to consider, too. Do you have to appear?”

“I’m not sure. Probably not. My work is more behind the scenes.” Phoebe seemed to get impatient with herself all of a sudden. She slid her feet back along the tub toward Rowe and submerged her shoulders. “Want to run some more hot water?” she asked overbrightly.

“Maybe in a while. Give your water cylinder a chance to heat up again.” Rowe wondered what Phoebe really wanted to say. Trying not to press her, she said in a neutral tone, “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here. I mean, I know you have your sister, but…”

Phoebe’s movements slowed. She gazed at Rowe, her eyes dark as midnight. “It gets lonely. Even with Cara.”

“Keeping secrets?”

“I don’t want to lie to you.”

Rowe grinned, hoping to lighten up the mood. “I’ll let you off, in the interests of national security.”

A foot nudged her thigh and, in a playful tone, Phoebe asked, “Are you mocking the FBI?”