The Edge of Recall (2 page)

He shook his head. “I’m going to find out. Until then, it’s probably best you don’t leave the county.”

Returning to the inn, she closed herself into the room, anger rising. Dr. Brenner had fed the sheriff’s suspicion instead of giving her credibility. So what if this event had connections to her dreams? She was a specialist in labyrinths. Her work always overlapped the subconscious elements that haunted her sleep.

She went and stood at the rain-streaked window. Could anyone truly believe she’d killed Smith? The thought that she may have had a psychotic break and imagined it all shook her, but if there was no body and no evidence of murder, then Smith was alive, somewhere. Oh, please—let it have all been in her head.

CHAPTER

2

Five weeks before . . .

The pungent smell of roses permeated the air as the sun warmed the blooms. Tessa opened her eyes once more to the finished labyrinth bathed by the sun’s honeyed glow. Leaning forward in the cherry-picker basket, she photographed the five-circuit classical labyrinth forming a single winding path to peace and wisdom—or, in this case, remembrance, as demonstrated by the rosebushes that formed the boundaries.

“There must be roses,” Alicia Beauprez had said, her eyes misty. “On our first anniversary Roger gave me a single red bud. Our second anniversary, a red and a white, then red and white and yellow. Never a duplicate among them. Last year there were fifty-two varieties for fifty-two beautiful years.”

Though she had never created a rose labyrinth, for several valid reasons, Tessa had not dissuaded her. It was Mrs. Beauprez’s prayer walk, and she wanted roses to recall the love of her life along the way. So Tessa had interspersed hawthorn with forty multi-hued rosebushes to line the path, and a dozen black-cherry tree roses stood on three-foot stems around a bench at the center where Alicia could sit to enjoy them.

From her elevated position, Tessa photographed the entire landscape project. The labyrinth centered the property behind the house, giving the manicured lawns a focal point, and though it was her favorite element, it wasn’t the whole story. She had terraced the difficult side yard with quince and hydrangeas and accented the patio areas with massive overflowing garden urns. The front fountain featured dual-height jets for a tiered effect in the brickpaved circular drive.

Satisfied, she signaled Jerome that she was finished shooting, and the cherry picker accordion-folded beneath her.

“All good?” Jerome raised his brows, knowing the delight she took in each completion, especially when the project included a labyrinth.

“Oh yes.” She hopped to the ground. “I’ll take Mrs. Beauprez for her final walkthrough, and then we’ll pack things up. Nice work, as always.” Her cell phone vibrated on her hip. Since it wasn’t a number she recognized, she answered professionally. “Tessa Young speaking.”

“Tessa, hello. This is Smith Chandler.”

At that, her professionalism fled. The accent and timbre of his voice disarmed her as time warped and the past became achingly present.

“From Cornell.”

She didn’t need clarification. She was back there in her mind already, a little hopeful, a little lost. . . .

“Tessa, are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Is now a good time to talk? I’ve something I’d like to run by you.”

Jerome and the crew were capable of loading the tools and equipment, but Mrs. Beauprez would be expecting her tour. Most of all, she could not talk to Smith without preparing herself. “Actually, it’s not convenient. Can you call back in a couple of hours?” When she’d regained her equilibrium, if that was possible.

“Yes, all right. But, Tessa—it’s important.”

She closed the phone, took a deep breath, and went to find Mrs. Beauprez. Witnessing the joy in her clients’ faces made all the hard work worth it. And this had been a dream project. After seeing photographs of previous work, Mrs. Beauprez had embraced her suggestion to make the formal garden into a contemplative path that led to the center and back. She would not let Smith’s call interfere with the pleasure of leading her client down that rose-scented path.

The sun had dipped to half-mast by the time she returned to her hotel room. She untied and tugged off her Wolverine steel-toed work boots, changed into a fresh T-shirt, and splashed her face with cool water from the bathroom sink. The Beauprez landscape completed her current projects except for some consulting, design, and research, and she was eager to get home.

Five hours and forty-three minutes since Smith’s call, he had still not called back. Typical, self-absorbed Smith. He knew it would drive her crazy not to know what he’d wanted—though not enough to call him. She tossed the phone onto the comforter and began to pack. As much as she enjoyed the different places she worked, going home grounded her.

She zipped up the suitcase, leaned back on her heels, and groaned as her thoughts circled back to Smith. He’d sounded excited. His plans and ideas had always enlivened him. She wished just hearing that eager tone in his voice hadn’t conjured up the animated look in his gray-blue eyes, the motion of his hands as he described whatever it was. She should have heard him out and been done with it.

She turned and caught her reflection in the mirror. The enemies that had haunted her since childhood stared back. Doubt, uncertainty, fear. All her Pyrrhic victories amounting to nothing once more. How could she have anticipated a call from the friend she’d half fallen in love with a dozen times before catching herself?

Her phone rang, and for a second she considered not answering, but the anxiety of the last few hours dashed that thought. Better to know and be done with it than to keep wondering. She stepped over her suitcase. “Hello?”

“Tessa, it’s Smith. I’m sorry it took so long to call back.”

“Did it?” Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she pressed a hand to her face, waiting.

“Let me say, it’s good to talk to you.”

No way could she say the same, even if she wanted to.

“I saw your write-up in
Architectural Digest
and couldn’t believe I knew the artist who’d created that labyrinth garden.”

Her breath made a hard escape. That from the man who’d ridiculed her vision?

“You’ve made that crazy idea work.”

“Maybe because it wasn’t crazy.” She lay back on the bed. That article had run two years ago. He could have picked up a phone and called her then if he was so impressed.

“So, anyway, I have a proposition I think you’ll find intriguing.”

She laid her arm across her forehead. “I’ll just bet you do.”

Smith leaned back in the squeaky desk chair and crossed his feet. Tessa sounded touchier than ever. The last thing he wanted was to irritate her, but was it humanly possible to avoid that? She would expect a complete explanation, and yet he couldn’t violate the non-disclosure agreement.

She’d told him once that she loved lines, lines connecting one point to another—straight, curved, angled, as long as they served the purpose of continuity. She even liked lines at the store to keep people from trampling one another, lines into a movie on opening night to assure seating in the proper order.

He’d laughed, but she liked knowing one thing logically led to another. She didn’t like surprises, just wanted to know which direction the line went and what connection it had to her. So straight to the end, without details? Best perhaps. “I want you to come to Maryland.”

“For what?”

“I’m assembling a design team for a project that has something that will interest you greatly.” That was as straight as he could put it. “I promise you won’t be disappointed, Tessa, if you come and see for yourself.”

“What makes you think that’s possible? I have a very full schedule.”

“I spoke with your secretary—”

“My assistant.”

“Right. She said that you’d finished up a major landscape and had some downtime.”

“I use downtime for design and research. I contribute to several publications and can’t take off on a whim.”

“Whim?” Smith ran a hand through his hair. “This is a serious offer. And you’re so close, just a short trip north.”

“How do you know where I am?”

“Again your sec—assistant, I’m afraid.”

She sighed. “I haven’t been home in two months. You can’t call me up after six years and expect me to drop everything.”

Smith looked at the contract he had laid out and ready. “You won’t be disappointed.”

“Oh no. You could never disappoint me.”

Smith took the phone from his ear and stared, then replaced it. “Have I . . . missed something insulting in this offer?”

“Yes. It’s insulting to think I’d run up there simply because you read about me in a magazine and think you can capitalize on it.”

He rubbed his forehead. “It’s not becau—”

“I suppose I’m flattered you now find my work useful to your project, but I actually remember you laughing with your friends. So no, I’m not really interested in working with you.” The connection ended.

Smith stared at his phone. Laughing with his friends? Well, he had been angry and disappointed when she’d switched majors and gone a direction he’d seen no future in. He had felt compelled to dissuade her after all his mentoring. But that was ancient history. They had the chance now to combine their talents, yet she’d refused. Without even hearing him out.

She hadn’t changed at all. Still an eggshell, cracking at every slight, imagining affronts where no affronts were intended. He hit his palm on his thigh. He had to get her on board. Aside from the fact that he truly did like and respect her, she was the perfect person for the project. Not because he meant to capitalize on her reputation—though he had yet to catch the notice she had—but because only Tessa could properly appreciate and take charge of what he’d found.

“Well?” Bair came into the office. “Got the labyrinth specialist?”

“Almost. We’re talking again tomorrow.” If she’d even take his call.

Gripping her shoulders with her hands, she presses into the thorny
foliage, trying to be small, invisible. Lightning splits the sky. Thunder
cracks. She runs. Needles slide beneath her feet. She falls, sinking, sliding.
Her mouth forms a silent scream as she hears him coming. . . .

Tessa shot up, gasping in the darkness, her heart pounding the pulse in her neck. She held her face between her clammy hands, then, needing to see, fumbled for the lamp switch and searched the corners of the hotel room. Nothing lurking. She threw the comforter off and swung her feet to the solid, dry floor. She was safe.

She drew a deep breath to still the terror and dragged her briefcase onto the bed. She knew the drill. Doing something productive, something creative would take her mind off the dream. Don’t search it for meaning. Get outside the emotions and stay there. She opened the briefcase. Her cell phone slipped out and lay on the comforter. Heart still pounding, she picked it up, tempted to call Dr. Brenner, who would talk her through this nightmare as he had so many others. No.

She had not disturbed him in the middle of the night for more than four years. Doing so now would indicate a deeper dependence than there was. Besides, if she called, what would she say, that Smith had caused a nightmare, reopened a wound? Dr. Brenner would tell her she was not a little girl anymore, that some monsters could be faced.

She could hear his placid voice as though he sat across the room from her. She couldn’t confront her missing father or her dead mother for answers or explanations. But Smith’s offer presented a chance to face someone who had hurt her. It might give her a way to make peace with the abandonment that drained her energy, her optimism, her faith.

Her stomach churned at the thought of confrontation, of holding someone accountable for wounding her. She had broken a cold sweat after disconnecting from Smith, after saying what had sprung to her lips before she could stop it. How could she face him now? But if she didn’t, she’d be the coward who’d had the chance and couldn’t take it.

Hand shaking, she picked up the phone, leaned against the headboard, and punched the number. Her heart beat more wildly than in her dream. This shouldn’t be so hard.