“Maybe you should take some Valium or tranquilizers or whatever. That’s what Brittany’s mother does. All those kids drive her nuts.”
“I’ll think about it,” Marla said, feeling like an utter fool. “Good night, honey. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yeah.” Cissy nodded, but her eyebrows were still pulled together in one concerned, disbelieving line. She dabbed at the spilled polish with a Kleenex as Marla closed the door behind her and hurried across the hall to the nursery.
The night light set on dim allowed her to see into the room. James was sleeping soundly on gingham sheets and gratefully oblivious to any evil in the world. “Oh, sweetheart.” Tears of relief filled Marla’s eyes. Everything was all right. Her children were safe. No one had attacked her. Nothing was wrong in this guarded fortress of a mansion.
And Cissy’s right. You’re losing it. Big time. Get a grip, Marla. Now! She sniffed, swiped at her nose and fought tears. No one was in the house who shouldn’t be. Life here was normal . . . well, as normal as it could be considering. Her stomach gurgled and ached, but other than a trace of nausea, she was fine. If you don’t stop this ridiculous paranoia you cou
ld wind up locked away in a mental hospital.
“No,” she whispered quietly, stiffening her spine. She couldn’t bear the thought. This house was enough of a prison, but an institution . . . no way. Not ever. She wrapped her arms around herself and told herself that her nerves were just strung tight tonight, tighter than usual.
She glanced down at the baby again and a flash of memory sizzled through her brain. In an instant she remembered the hospital and the delivery room with its bright lights, the intense pressure and pain of the birth, a masked doctor delivering the boy and . . . and . . . the baby . . . her precious son . . . coming into the world. The labor had been long. Tedious. Worse than she’d expected. But in the end she’d delivered her son. Yes! Yes! Yes! James was her child. Hers! She remembered his crown of red hair, wet and plastered to his head beneath a coating of white and his face all screwed up and angry in the seconds before he was placed onto her belly and she held him to her breast.
I will love you forever, she’d thought at the time, and no one’s going to take you away from me. I swear it. No matter what.
Vivid images were burned in her brain and along with the elation of birth there was something darker involved, something intense . . . fear . . . A deep-seated and mind-numbing fear that someone would take the child from her, wrest this precious baby from her arms . . . but that was insane . . . wasn’t it?
She picked up the tiny bundle and held him to her shoulder as if she expected someone to rip him from her at any moment. Tears streamed down her face and her stomach spasmed. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, kissing his thatch of hair and drinking in the sweet baby scent of him. He cooed, nuzzled and sighed in a soft breath against the crook of her neck, evoking more tears in her eyes. God, she loved this tiny child. “It’s gonna be all right,” she said, rocking from side to side. “Everything’s gonna be all right. Mama’s here. I . . . I won’t let anything happen to you. Not ever.” And how are you going to stop it?
“However I can. Whatever it takes.” She sniffed back her tears, and refused to be intimidated. No one was going to help her; she wasn’t certain who she could trust. She’d have to combat her fears by herself. As she stood in the semidark for a few minutes, needing to hold the baby far more than he needed to be cuddled, Marla pressed her lips to James’s downy crown. Outside a branch scraped against the roof and the wind rushed through the trees, but inside it was safe. James made tiny smacking noises with his lips and Marla smiled, reluctantly placing him in his crib.
She left the connecting door to the nursery slightly ajar as she made her way back to bed. Holding her son had chased her fears away, but she was still a little queasy. Her emotions were ragged, her mind jangled and frayed, her stomach in knots. She considered going downstairs, searching out the damned nurse, but felt like a wimp. Besides, it was only a case of nerves; nothing more. She couldn’t imagine telling Eugenia or Nick that her tummy was upset and that she’d thought a stranger had stood over her bed and threatened to kill her, here, in her own home.
“Toughen up,” she scolded herself, then downed the rest of the water in her bedside glass. She slid between the covers and told herself that tomorrow she wasn’t going to sit around this house. No way. No how. Not one more minute. As soon as the damned wires were off, Marla would visit her father, her brother and the tennis club. She’d meet with Cherise, see if she remembered her. Her mind spun with plans of reaching someone in Pam Delacroix’s family, finding out more about the woman she couldn’t remember and the hastily arranged trip that no one understood. Maybe she could explain how horrid she felt about friend’s death. Then there was Charles Biggs’s family. She’d have to talk to the bereaved.
There were no two ways about it. Starting tomorrow, she’d take the bull by the horns and gain control of her life again—find out exactly what made Marla Cahill tick.
And what about Nick? Are you going to explore your relationship with him, too? “You bet I am,” she said as she plumped her pillow. She couldn’t get well until she knew the truth.
Reaching over for the lamp, Marla glanced around the room one last time. Elegant as it was, it still felt strange to her, awkward, as if it didn’t fit, just the way she’d felt as a teenager, slipping into a beautiful, expensive dress, two sizes too big and belonging to someone else . . . the memory tore through her mind. Sizzling. Bright. Harsh. It wasn’t just an analogy. She had tried on a fancy dress, one that hadn’t belonged to her. She remembered it clearly. And yet . . . how? According to everyone she’d grown up pampered, the only daughter of an extremely wealthy man, treated as if she were a princess . . . surely she’d never have worn hand-me-downs . . . no way, and yet the dress, a soft blue beaded confection, was imprinted upon her mind. She remembered running her fingers along the skirt, feeling the smooth lining against her skin, knowing the expensive dress had belonged to another girl . . . one she didn’t like . . .
When? How?
Her stomach clenched.
Was this a real memory, or all part of the dreams she was having? Call for Nick, Marla’s mind screamed silently. Alex isn’t here and you need someone to confide in.
But not Nick, oh, God, no . . . she couldn’t . . .
Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate. She’d been about fourteen at the time, not much older than Cissy. “Won’t she mind?” she’d asked her mother. “Won’t she care that I’m in her dress?”
There had been a sharp bark of laughter from the other room . . . the kitchen with its smells of grease and stale cigarette smoke. “She’s got so many, she won’t miss one.”
“Mother,” Marla whispered now, cold sweat breaking on her skin. She’d been talking to her mother. A fan swirled lazily overhead and flies buzzed at the half-open window. But why would Victoria Amhurst be in a shabby bedroom with yellowed curtains, a rag rug and dusty blinds?
Where had they been? Why had she felt like it was home? Marla held her breath, thought hard, her fists clenching in the smooth sheets of her bed—this elegant canopied, rosewood monstrosity—and tried to call up her mother’s face. She’d seen the pictures in the photograph albums, but she couldn’t remember her mother at all. Why in the world had she given Marla a hand-me-down dress fit for a debutante? A used gown?
Unless she wasn’t Marla Cahill. Wasn’t Alexander’s wife. Wasn’t Victoria Amhurst’s daughter.
Was it possible? She touched her face, traced the scars that were receding. Why would everyone insist she was a woman she wasn’t? What about the wreck and the amnesia? Coincidence ? Or were there darker forces at play—sinister plans embodied in the man who had threatened her? The voices in her mind kept reminding her that this wasn’t her room, that there was just no way she would have draperies and pillows that matched, a bed big enough for two but only occupied by one, a sitting area and bookcase filled with leather-bound volumes that, she guessed, hadn’t been opened in years. Where were the magazines? The crossword puzzle books? The handstitched throws? The mess that she instinctively felt was a part of her life?
But the baby. He’s your own flesh and blood. You remember him. In time you’ll remember this room, too.
You have to.
Her stomach rumbled again and cramped. She took in a deep breath. The pain would pass. She was still just upset; that was it. She passed a trembling hand over her lips. This was all too much. But tomorrow . . . tomorrow she’d start sorting everything out and she wouldn’t take any more well-intentioned advice. She was going to do things her way.