Michael’s Wife (31 page)

Authors: Marlys Millhiser

BOOK: Michael’s Wife

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She rolled over on one side and then the other and finally gave up, leaving the bed to find a warm robe and fuzzy slippers. But Laurel still shivered as she stepped through the connecting door to Jimmy's room, stepped gingerly because of her bandaged ankle.

The puppy growled as she came up to the crib and then licked her hand when she tried to pat him. Jimmy slept with his knees under him, hunched over the bedraggled Teddy bear. As she covered him, Laurel felt a surge of pleasure just to find her child warm and breathing.

This was an exciting, terrifying world that would often challenge her courage. But her father was right. It was the only world she had. The only world Jimmy had.

Laurel did the one thing her father could not forgive. She quit trying. The detective would have written him that she'd gone to live in a hippie colony in the mountains. To John Lawrence that would be quitting. He hadn't known she'd gone one step further and forgotten what she couldn't face.

Back in her own room, she switched on a lamp and stood staring at the empty bed. She couldn't hope to control this world or even to understand it. She would never understand the violent streak in people, the almost stupid cunning of Evan Boucher, the naked pleasure on Harley's face when he confronted Michael on the desert, the change that came over the gentle Sid when he donned his John the Baptist robes and exhorted others to violence.

And she would never understand Michael Devereaux who was more explosive than any of them. Laurel just knew inexplicably that she wanted him.

She moved into the hall and stood listening to the quiet. Would this house always make her feel so small? Would she have the chance to find out?

Light from the entry hall below gathered around the balcony railing, the carpet and back wall of the upstairs hall.

The door to the salon stood open, and as she started down the stairs, she heard the faint sound of voices, Claire's nervous giggle.

Laurel hesitated at the base of the stairs. This hall was larger than their entire apartment in Denver. The morning Michael kissed her good-bye and left for Vietnam, she'd crouched on the floor of that apartment, feeling the emptiness, realizing that he'd taken his strength with him.

She was so sure that he would never return.

Paul's voice came to her as she crossed the sunburst. “â¦ Not really so surprising, Michael. The female of any species when defending her young is an amazingly vicious animal.”

Flames soared and twisted in the fireplace, sending writhing shadows about the far end of the room.

Michael stood with his back to the fire beneath the portrait of his young mother and his younger self, staring into the brandy snifter he revolved rhythmically, absently, in one hand.

“I can't imagine Laurel as vicious or even properly feisty. She's always appeared one of the most helpless creatures I've ever met.” Janet sat beside Paul on a couch to the side of the fire. Claire, in a chair across from them, leaned toward Michael.

Only Maria noticed Laurel approach, until she was halfway across the room and Michael looked up from his brandy. Stilling the motion of the snifter, he watched her move toward him without blinking.

“Good heavens, Laurel, you're supposed to be asleep after that sedative. You shouldn't be up. Consuela will get you anything you.â¦”

“No, Janet.” She stopped in front of Michael, determined to meet the challenge in his eyes. “I want to speak to my husband. Alone.”

A long embarrassing silence followed while the firelight sent contorted shadow patterns across Michael's face and the portrait above him.

“Yes â¦ well, I suppose it's well past bedtime for everyone.” Paul drained his snifter and rose. “Come along, Janet. Claire.”

“Laurel, be reasonable. It's too late at night to have it out now. Michael's tired and.â¦”

“I can take care of myself, Claire.” That low warning in his voice as he interrupted her. But he didn't take his eyes from Laurel.

Claire looked from Michael to Laurel and then turned suddenly to follow the others.

Michael slid back the screen and kicked a smoldering log into sparks and flame. “That was a foolish thing you did today, not waiting for me before going off after Jimmy.”

“I know.”

“I came very close to losing you again.”

“Michael, when I went to the Milner ranch this morning.â¦”

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

If only she didn't have to risk telling him. “Yes.”

Laurel hesitated, trying to find acceptable words for unacceptable facts. There were none. “You were right â¦ about there being a man. I met him today.”

Michael turned from her to stare up at the portrait of his mother. And Laurel told him about Sid, unable to read the expression on his proud face.

When she finished, he didn't speak or move. She put her hands out to the fire, but even it couldn't warm her. The sedative had left a dryness in her mouth.

“Michael, you've admitted other women in your life â¦ and you knew what you were doing â¦ I couldn't remember either of us.” She was suddenly aware of the day's struggles, the soreness of her throat, the ache of pulled muscles, the scratches, bruises. A weary hopelessness. Warning prickles played over her skin and her voice caught. “You can't turn me out now.â¦”

“Laurel, listen to me,” he whispered and turned to her. “When you walked out on Jimmy â¦ when they told me you'd been seen just â¦ walking out â¦ I didn't believe it. I kept waiting for a letter saying there had been a mistake. Then I thought your folks would find you and talk some sense into you. After a few months of that I was left with no hope â¦ just anger â¦ that grew and ate. By the time I reached the States, that anger was so powerful â¦ and when I saw Jimmy.â¦”

Michael set the snifter on the mantel and ran long fingers through jet hair. “I was â¦ so â¦ goddamned mad.” He spit the words at her, and she turned away, her hand covering her mouth.

“Let me finish.” The resonant voice came close behind her. “Not once â¦ in all that time â¦ did I try to find you â¦ did I even think that you might be in trouble and need me.” He turned her to face him. “So don't ask me to judge you, Laurel.”

Even in the flickering half-light she could see the deepened lines around his mouth, the gray tinge to the swarthy face. He'd had a few struggles of his own today.

“When you did come back, my anger had turned to hate. I stayed away from you because â¦ because it was hard to keep up that hate when I was in the same house with you.” His arms moved abruptly and drew her hard against him. He buried his face in her hair, the warmth of his body finally penetrating her as the fire could not.

“I didn't give you a chance to explain. Or myself a chance to believe you.” His voice came low, muffled. He tightened his strangely clinging hold. “Then you blanked out on me on the desert that day and I knew what I'd done to you, to us. But I didn't know where to start making it right.â¦”

“I don't care about that.” She wanted to stay enveloped in this hard warmness forever but she pushed away from him. “What about us â¦ now?”

Michael straightened, drew back into himself. “I am every kind of fool and hypocrite, Laurel”âa hint of the old sarcasm, directed at himself this time. “But I don't give up easily.” He'd humbled himself as much as he ever would and the familiar challenge crept into the metallic eyes. “Do you?”

“No.â¦” Laurel moved back into the crushing warmth. “Not anymore, Michael.”

About the Author

Marlys Millhiser is an American author of fifteen mysteries and horror novels. Born in Charles City, Iowa, Millhiser originally worked as a high school teacher. She has served as a regional vice president of the Mystery Writers of America and is best known for her novel
The Mirror
and for the Charlie Greene Mysteries. Millhiser currently lives in Boulder, Colorado.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Elizabeth Connor

ISBN: 978-1-5040-1023-8

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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