Half-Moon Lake, page 3
Speaking of weeding…there was the gardener now, on his knees, bent over one of the beds, hard at work even before breakfast. As I watched, a handful of weeds—or were they disobedient plants?—joined the mound of others in a nearby wheelbarrow. He paused and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his face. Already sweating this early in the morning? I sighed. Another sticky day in paradise. I never thought I’d appreciate the oven-like temps of Tucson, but I couldn’t wait to get this business over and done so I could get back to the dry heat I was accustomed to. The lake should be close by. If I could find it, maybe I’d treat myself to an afternoon swim. After all, mountain water was supposed to be cold and invigorating. Sounded like just the ticket.
I scanned through the trees, looking beyond the gardener, and there it was. My subconscious mind had known exactly where to look even if my conscious mind hadn’t, reinforcing the feeling I’d had the night before, the sudden certainty that this had been my home in my unremembered past. Staring at the flash of blue visible through the trees made my heart pick up its pace again and my stomach flip-flop uneasily. Why? Was there a reason to be afraid of that lake?
Shuddering, I dropped the curtain, but before I turned away from the window, my eyes went back to the gardener. He was now on his feet facing the house. I couldn’t see his eyes—his floppy hat cast a shadow over the top half of his face—but the way his head was tilted back, it seemed as if he were staring straight at my window. Could he see me? Surely not…not through the curtain, but even so, it was a little creepy; like he knew I was up here, looking out at him.
In that instant, goose bumps covered my arms as I turned and plopped down on the edge of the bed. The combination of the gardener staring and the unaccounted for, but very real, fear of the lake brought other fears to the surface…like those with which I’d awakened.
No! I tried to shake away the memory.
You’ve had it two nights in a row, Kate, I reasoned with myself. The nightmare is back. You have to face it. Ignoring it, avoiding it, trying to hide from it…it’s not going to change things.
I fought back a whimper. “Night terrors.” That’s what a psychiatrist had called them. But knowing the technical name for it brought little comfort. It hadn’t muffled the screams that had jerked both Pat and me out of slumber more nights than I cared to recall. The same nightmare that rolled all my phobias—butterflies, vines and school buses—into a single terror-filled package was back.
I forced myself to dissect the dream.
The little girl was running alone in a green world. Floppy leaves, the size and shape of enormous butterfly wings, covered everything. It was the same stuff that covered that hillside on the way into town yesterday. The vine-like plant’s hungry fingers reached to grab the child’s legs, wrapping around them, causing her to stumble and fall, over and over. Tears streamed down her terrified face, blinding her. Her breath came in quick, desperate gasps. Someone was chasing her. She kept looking over her shoulder, into the menacing green behind her. Up ahead hulked a large mound almost completely covered with vines. It was a school bus; the elongated shape barely recognizable, only small patches of yellow showed under the swarms of green butterflies trying to devour it.
The child’s trembling hand reached out to pull aside the vines in order to peek in a window. Horror etched her pale face; her mouth opened to scream. Then the vines and butterflies were attacking her, wrapping around her arms, tangling in her hair, tighter and tighter…
Just thinking about it had me gasping for air, a tourniquet of panic closing my throat. My subconscious—or inner-Kate, as I liked to call her—had collapsed on her fainting couch, oriental fan in one hand, smelling salts in the other. I’d get no help from her.
I might as well face it; there was no escaping the fact that the little girl in the nightmare was me. Pat hadn’t had many photographs of me as a child, but there had been a few, so I knew I was right. Here was the root of all my phobias. But what did it mean? And why had I dreamt it again after all these years? Something must’ve triggered it. The little girl looked to be about eight or nine years old…the age I’d been when the nightmares started, and as far back as I had any memories. Had we lived here then? Was that why we’d left? Had something so horrible happened, so dangerous that Pat had felt the need to sever all ties with this place—basically living a lie? What on earth had the child of my dream seen inside that bus?
There were no answers to those questions, only a large gaping hole that represented my early childhood. Perhaps this trip to Half-Moon Lake would fill that hole.
Why wasn’t that thought very reassuring?
****
“Excuse me, Miss?”
The voice made me jump several inches off the ground. It was close…too close. Definitely invading my personal space. I whirled around, almost bumping noses with the woman who hovered at my elbow, staring through thick glasses that magnified her rheumy eyes to scary proportions. I stood my ground, returned the stare, until the other woman took a couple of steps backward, allowing me to study her better.
Her hair was completely white with just a hint of blue in its salon-induced waves. Her hands were folded together about chest high as if she were in constant position of prayer, and she had the annoying habit of sniffing every two and a half seconds.
“Yes?” I finally answered.
“Would you be wanting some breakfast, Miss?” Sniffs punctuated almost every other word.
I tried to smile and hoped it was more successful than it felt. “Coffee would be nice, Ms.…”
There was no return smile. The woman’s stiff lips never even twitched. She just widened her already gigantic eyes before sniffing once, then she turned and motioned me to follow, mumbling like an angry house elf. “I shouldn’t wonder you don’t remember me, though it might be nice if you had, seein’s how I was the one what took care of you both.” Her voice raised a degree or two and she tossed her reply over her shoulder. “The name’s Mrs. Davis…Eleanor Davis. Been here nigh unto thirty years. That’s longer than anyone else—even Wink—’cept Mr. Eubanks himself, of course. Hmmm… Looks like I’ve outlasted him too. ’Tis a mighty long time to be a housekeeper…over thirty years.”
A response wasn’t necessary, so I tuned her out, taking the opportunity to study the larger-than-life sized, ornately framed paintings of some really dour-faced people who lined the walls on both sides of the hallway. I hoped these weren’t my ancestors, but was afraid they were. Why else would anyone have them on the wall? Certainly not for decorative purposes.
A lull in the flow of the chatter turned my attention back to my companion. I noted that the narrow shoulders in front of me had stiffened to a near board-like quality. The imperious sniff that followed, told me I must’ve missed something important. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked you which one you were.”
Which one? Which one of what? I shook my head in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“Kate-lyn or Ken-na?” The answer was loud, enunciated with an exaggerated slowness, as if talking to someone who was either hard of hearing or mentally challenged.
Narrowing my eyes, I made a face at the woman’s back. No need to be a smart aleck! “Um…I’m afraid you must have me mixed up with someone else. My name is Kathryn Dorne.”
Without warning, the shuffling stopped. I nearly collided into Mrs. Davis’ back, and took a hasty step backward when the obviously agitated woman whirled around to face me. The constant sniffing became more pronounced. “Kathryn, you say? No, dear. You’re one of the twins…” Her big eyes stared some more; then she shook her head as if trying to get rid of cobwebs. “Oh, you must forgive me. My mind gets a little foggy at times. Senior moment, you know. You can’t be Kenna…poor little thing. Kenna’s dead.”
Dead! What did she mean by dead?
I swallowed hard, and fought to keep my composure tightly reined. Easier said than done. My inner-Kate was shrilling, Kenna? Who the heck is Kenna? “Um,” I cleared my throat and mentally shushed her. “Did you say, dead?”
“Oh, yes,” she chirped. “Drowned when she was just a wee girl. So you have to be Kate… Or do you prefer Katelyn now that you’re all grown up?”
“Katelyn?” Was that my voice? It sounded so hoarse. Katelyn Eubanks and not Kathryn Dorne? My mind fizzed with the new information. I repeated it in my head a few times. It came easily. Was that my real name? Of course, my last name must be Eubanks if Patrick Eubanks was my father, but why would Pat have changed it in the first place? It stood to reason that a name-change would’ve been necessary to pull off something like this. Why go to all the trouble of stealing a child away, only to be tracked down by keeping the same name? At least Pat kept it similar. Kathryn…Katelyn…Kate could work as a nickname for both, but that still didn’t answer the question, why?
Suddenly, the floor beneath my feet felt shaky, a little unstable, more the consistency of pudding or quick sand than of solid wood. Or maybe the instability was my legs, not the floor. I resisted the impulse to grab at the wainscoting that ran the length of the hallway. I knew Mrs. Davis’ enormous eyes would miss nothing and I didn’t want the old biddie to know just how badly she’d rattled me.
My mouth was so dry, it was nearly impossible to swallow, but somehow I managed one, and then forced another smile. “Yes, I…I guess I am Katelyn, but you can just call me Kate.” It was better to keep things as familiar as possible. There was just too much else going on, too many other mental hurdles, for my mind to handle anything more than that right now.
Then, just when I thought I had everything under control, the terrifyingly, vivid scene from my nightmare flashed through my brain, making me gasp. My hands clenched so tightly my nails gouged into my palms. Sweat filmed my forehead.
It was too much to take in before coffee! I resisted the urge to shove the old woman out of the way, and dash headlong down the dim passageway in search of a much-needed caffeine fix. Instead, I endured another long moment of Mrs. Davis’ speculation before she finally turned and continued down the corridor.
The sniffling shuffle paused when we reached a doorway on the right through which sunlight streamed. At Mrs. Davis’ directive, I hurried into the room, only to halt, temporarily blinded while my eyes adjusted. A bank of floor-to-ceiling windows admitted a golden glow that splashed warmth over everything it touched. The sheer curtains diffused the bright light. The contrast between this room and the gloom of the hallway was almost painful, making me squint.
“Here we are, miss. Coffee’s there on the sideboard. Juice too.” She lifted a silver cover, peeking underneath. “Cook’s whipped up some eggs and bacon if you like. There’s fresh fruit, if you prefer. Will there be anything else?”
“No, this is perfect. I think I can handle it now.”
Her enormous eyes blinked twice before she turned with a sniff, disappearing through the door.
Thank goodness that was over! I gripped the sideboard and practiced the deep-breathing technique I learned in one of my many doctor’s visits years ago. The whole inhale-through-your-nose…hold-to-the-count-of-five…exhale-through-your-mouth routine was pretty noisy, and sounded disturbingly similar to the sound a whale makes when breaching. It wasn’t something one wanted to do with an audience. Once I regained a little composure, I reached for a cup and poured myself some coffee. As I stirred in cream and sugar, I tried to keep my mind from delving into the details I’d just learned from Mrs. Davis. I needed caffeine before attempting to unravel the tangled mess in my mind.
My inner-Kate was primly dipping her teabag in her eggshell-thin porcelain cup, acting totally unruffled. Only a careful observer would notice her hand trembling.
Then, from behind me, someone quietly cleared his throat and once again, I jumped inches from the ground. Yikes! Yes, I’d thought I’d been alone, but that was no reason to be so darn skittish. I was the proverbial long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Maybe it was due to the Victorian creepiness of this place combined with my leftover nightmare effects. I felt my cheeks warm, remembering the whale-routine I’d unknowingly shared.
Whirling around, I met two sets of dark eyes. The young man beamed a no-holds-barred, hundred kilowatt smile at me. He looked to be about my age and very handsome in a GQ kind of way. He was almost too handsome, if there was such a thing.
Hmmm…what have we here? My inner-Kate had taken off her half-moon glasses and was smoothing her hair.
“Control yourself,” I muttered under my breath.
Beside him sat a woman who, at first glance, looked to be his sister. A closer inspection revealed an age difference, wider than it first seemed. From the looks of it, the initial mistake was thanks to a close working relationship with a good plastic surgeon. It was obvious that the two were related, but they were probably mother and son rather than sister and brother. Same blonde hair…his, natural; hers, straight from a bottle, compliments of Miss Clairol number whatever. Their eyes were the same black-brown color and shape—practically the same color as mine—but the expressions shining from them couldn’t have been more different.
His eyes sparkled with amusement, like he was party to some sort of pleasant surprise. There was something else there, too. It almost looked like…adoration.
Adoration?
I barely kept myself from snorting. Yeah, right. No one that good looking could possibly be interested in me and if he was, well…it wouldn’t last for long. My track record proved it.
His expression seemed expectant. Was I missing something? Was I supposed to know him? Oh, no! If I’d forgotten someone who looked like that, then I was much worse off that I thought.
I glanced at the woman, but shrank back at the open animosity glittering in her gaze. The difference between the way each of them looked at me was disconcerting, to say the least. Her look was scary; his was so…not! Polar opposites.
I approached the table. “Good morning. I’m sorry I didn’t see you when I came in. The sunlight had me blinded at first.” I stuck out my hand. “Kate Dorne—uh…I mean, Eubanks.”
The man jumped to his feet, his warm hand closing around mine. Though his smile was dazzling, he looked puzzled. “Dorne?” he laughed. “Still the kidder, I see. You’ve grown up, but not out of your old ways.” He shook his head and then continued. “No need to be so formal, Kate, honey. It’s been a long time, but we’re still family.”
Family? I stared at him in confusion, wracking my brain for something…anything that would give me a clue.
Bewilderment showed in his eyes. “What’s the matter? Don’t you remember me?”
I shook my head, not knowing what else to do.
“Emory?” He paused a moment, perhaps thinking the name might jog my memory. I shrugged, giving him an apologetic smile and shook my head again. A slight frown etched his brow; then disappeared just as quickly. “Emory Eubanks.” He put his hand on his breakfast companion’s shoulder. “And this is my mother—your stepmother, Jessa…you don’t remember her either?”
Stepmother! Then that made Emory my…stepbrother. Of course, just my luck.
I turned toward his mother, staring at her, willing myself to remember. This was my stepmother. I should remember something! Suddenly, a younger version of her face flashed in my head. Angry…she was angry and it had her face twisted into an ugly mask; eyes glittering with hate. The vision was gone as quickly as it came, but its memory was so vivid, it took my breath away and covered my arms with goose bumps. I fought off a shudder and offered the woman my hand with as much of a smile as I could muster.
Jessa ignored the hand, focusing on my face, instead. Dark eyes studied me carefully, like I was a specimen under a microscope, missing nothing, then they narrowed. Uh-oh…had my too-expressive face given me away? I’d never been good at hiding my thoughts. Pat had always called me an open book, claiming I wore my feelings painted on my face for everyone to see. According to Pat, I had no future as either a poker player or an actress.
Feeling rebuffed, I dropped my hand and the tension built for a long moment. Finally, Jessa dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, careful not to disturb her lipstick; then forced a brittle smile. “So good to see you again, Katelyn. Now if you’ll both excuse me…I have some things to attend to before the attorney arrives.”
Watching her leave filled me with something akin to dread.
My inner-Kate clenched her fists, her glare following Jessa from the room.
Emory gestured toward an empty place at the table. “Would you join me? I hate to eat alone. And besides, we have a lot of catching up to do.”
I meekly sat in the chair he pulled out.
He jumped up to spoon some egg casserole onto a plate before tossing on a couple of slices of bacon and setting it down in front of me. He turned back to the sideboard and spooned some fruit into a small crystal bowl, then grabbed the pitcher of orange juice before returning to the table. As he poured, he asked nonchalantly, “So Kate, where have you been for the last…um…has it really been fifteen years? You just disappeared; here one day and gone the next.” He placed the heavy, cut-crystal glass beside my plate with a disarming smile.
My laugh sounded a little nervous. “Emory, I think I probably need to tell you right up front that I don’t remember anything about this place, about you, your mother or even my own father. I have no memories about my life prior to age nine. And believe me it’s not from lack of trying.”
“I don’t follow.”
I tapped the side of my head. “Even hypnotizing can’t open this door.”
His eyes widened, and he seemed to mull over the information while he chewed a bite of food. After swallowing, he continued. “Is it some sort of amnesia? You really can’t remember anything?”
I grimaced. “Well, occasionally I get a tiny flash of déjà vu, but that’s about it.”
Whoa! That sure got his attention! “What do you mean?” The way he pounced with his question made me think of the way a cat springs on a mouse.
