The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [159]
“Since I wasn’t there, I’m glad you waited.”
“And aren’t you glad we aren’t being recorded right now? Anyone listening would have to wonder what we’ve been smoking.”
They both had a nervous laugh for the strangeness of the reality they were living. They both knew there was no one else in the world they could share this particular experience with, and they both knew it as a good thing—a very good thing.
“At least let me drive you . . . or Gus can. For my sake. I want to make sure you get there in one piece.” In jest, he shook a finger at her. “No more taking the cliff path, understand?”
She blinked at him twice, was aware he was teasing—as aware as she was that she’d taken the cliff path, that didn’t exist, too often to simply brush it off as part of a dream.
“No. You’re right. It’s not funny yet.” He gathered her in his arms and she leaned into him for comfort. “But it will be. I promise. Someday we’ll look back at all this and we’ll laugh. People will ask how we met and we’ll say, ‘In a dream.’ Then we’ll look at each other and we’ll laugh. Trust me.”
“Oh, see now, that’s the drawback to the valerian root,” her mother said a short while later. It was early evening, the sun was down, and darkness pressed against the many windows. “It works but there’s such a letdown once you stop taking it. Actually, since it helps you calm down and relax, it’s probably a letup when you stop taking it . . . but either way it’s not this quick, generally. Although as we agreed this morning, everyone reacts differently, don’t we?”
That was just this morning? It felt like a year ago to Ivy.
“No, I think it’s still working, Mom. I can hardly keep my eyes open, I’m so sleepy.”
“You’re not taking too much, now, are you? Only take what I prescribed . . . just the way I told you to take it or—”
“No, Mom. I’m not. Everything’s working. Just like you said it would.”
Jeez. Harp much, Mom?
“Butt out.”
“What did you say?” Her mother’s voice had that prespanking tone of yore.
“I said . . . it’s a shutout. You know, like in baseball when the pitcher is having a really good day, everything’s working for him, he pitches a perfect game, and no one on the other team makes a run? Well, that’s me. Everything is working great—me, my book, everything.”
“Oh. I’m so glad, honey. I’ve been worried.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Nice save.
“Don’t be sorry, sweetie, just be well. That’s all I want.”
“I know. And I am. I’m much better. Coming up here was exactly what I needed.”
My idea.
“I’m so glad. It came to me out of the blue, and I just knew you’d love it up there.”
“I do. And now I’m going to bed. I have something to take care of first, but I wanted to check in before it got too late.”
“It’s ten after eight.”
“I know. I’m beat. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Sleep well, honey.”
“Leave my mother alone. Stay out of her head,” she told the air as she disconnected. “I’ll do my best to help you, but leave her alone.”
Free me.
“Tomorrow . . . if you let me sleep tonight.”
EIGHT
So, technically, she should have asked for a sleep without dreams—but who thinks of technicalities when they’re dead on their feet?
Still, even in sleep she balked at the cliff path, turning away, running, running, searching for the path through the woods, fully aware the cliff path no longer existed . . . never existed . . . and that the overhang was far more dangerous than she’d realized.
The sounds of their laughter and low-pitched voices filtered through the trees and beckoned her like the scent of hot chocolate on a snowy afternoon. She emerged, not from the trees but from the house behind the gazebo. Mumford Manor, Gus had called it, a gorgeous Victorian Stick house—Craig’s family’s summer home. Then, abruptly, she was heading for the gazebo . . . from the cliff side as she always had before.
They were as before: Lit with life in a black-and-white picture—the rugged-looking, handsome man stood to one side of the woman’s chair, the boy at her feet.
She could smell the wisteria as she got closer, which she did