If I Can't Have You (10 page)

Just as he’d said.

She lifted the orange juice from the tray and took a sip, trying to ignore his piercing gaze.

“You didn’t sleep much better than I did,” he said,
sitting finally in the chair next to the bed. “I could hear you from the guest room.”

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

“You didn’t disturb me.”

He leaned back in the chair,
his eyes never leaving hers. He smoothed his index finger over the pencil-thin mustache above his lips. With his growth of whiskers she hadn’t noticed the mustache before, but it was definitely there.

Just like Trevor’s.

“I still frighten you, don’t I?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I admit my appearance could give anyone a start.”

“It’s not that,” Adriana interrupted. “No one’s ever broken into my home before, and if someone had, they wouldn’t be serving me coffee in bed.”

‘That’s not what’s frightening you. It’s the fact that I’m Trevor Montgomery, and you think I’m a madman.”

“If Trevor Montgomery were alive, he’d be in his nineties.”

“Ninety-four.”

You don’t look much more than forty.”

‘Thirty-four. Stress has a way of aging a man.”

‘Too much liquor can do that, too.”

“So I’ve been told.”

The intruder got up from the chair and walked around the room. He touched the videos beside the TV, picked up one after another and read the titles. “Which is your favorite?”

“Captain Caribe.”

Shaking his head, he laughed lightly. ‘Just like every other woman. They like those dashing, daring heroes.” The stranger leaned against the dresser and stared absently at the videocassette. “I sprained my ankle swinging from the yardarm,” he told her. He seemed to be reminiscing, but Adriana knew he was
telling a lie. She’d never heard this story before, and she knew everything there was to know about Trevor Montgomery.

“We had only two more days of shooting,” he said. “I was young, and that was my first starring role. I didn’t want anything to jeopardize the film or my career, so I wrapped the ankle myself, borrowed a few painkillers from a friend, and pretended nothing was wrong. That night I took a little whiskey along with the pills.”

He looked up at Adriana, a deep sadness, maybe a little regret in his eyes. “I didn’t feel a
thing
after that. The ankle healed eventually. I didn’t need the liquor anymore, but... whiskey dulls many kinds of pain.”

“You drank enough to kill yourself last night.”

He laughed and shook his head. “And the night before, too. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m indestructible.”

“You’re not. You’ve been in an accident, hit over the head or something. That’s why you can’t remember.”

“You’re wrong. I walked into a swimming pool and, quite by choice, floated facedown until I couldn’t breathe any longer. The next thing I remember, I popped out of the pool—and now I’m here—sixty years later. I remember all of that quite vividly. I just don’t remember what happened in between.”

He put down the videotape and leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest. “Of course, there’s always the possibility that I’m a ghost.”

“You’re insane,”

“You’ve told me that before. In fact, I’m starting to believe it myself.”

Adriana stared at him. She wanted to run away
, but she was mesmerized by ever
ything he said. His voice was deep, and in spite of his words, he was extremely calm.

He sounded just like Trevor Montgomery, a man who had laughed in the face of death.

She wished she could laugh at everything, but she found no humor in what was going on, especially when she thought that she might be the one who’d lost her mind.

“I should call a psychiatrist,” she blurted out. “You need help.”

“You’re all the help I need.”

Adriana pulled the covers closer to her neck when he reached over the bed. She thought he was going to touch her again. Instead, he took the cup of coffee from the tray he’d brought into the room.

“If you’re not going to drink this, do you mind if I do?”

Slowly Adriana shook her head, finding speech too difficult.

He sat back in the chair next to her bed and sipped at the coffee. “I read your paper this morning. There’s a President Clinton in the White House now.” A faraway glare clouded his eyes. “President Roosevelt was living there a few days ago. There is page after page of theaters with a dozen movies playing at each, and I didn’t recognize the names of any of the stars. No Shirley Temple, no Spencer Tracy, Clark Gable, or Errol Flynn. There’s nothing in the paper about Hitler or the fighting in Europe, but there are wars going on in countries I’ve never heard of.”

He rested his head against the back of the chair. “Maybe I am mad,” he said, trying to stifle a yawn. “This was my house yesterday. I slept in this room. I was the one who decided who could stay. Now, suddenly, I’m a guest.” He laughed lightly. “You say the house belongs to you, yet I don’t even know your name.”

“Adriana Howard,” she said quite easily, as if they were going to be the best of friends.

He smiled and closed his eyes. “Adriana,” he whispered. “It’s a nice name.”

And he had a nice voice, in spite of all his faults.

She climbed from the bed when he looked as though he might drift off to sleep. She took the cup from his loosened fingers before it could fall to the floor. “You’re tired. Why don’t you sleep a while.”

She pulled a blanket from the end of her bed and draped it over the stranger. He looked peaceful and unthreatening with his eyes closed. She saw what could be a very handsome man beneath the puffiness
and
under the beard. Without thinking, she reached out to caress his cheek, then stopped when her fingers were less than an inch away.

What was she doing? Why would she want to touch this man who had intruded on her life?

“I’m going to go out for a while,” she whispered, hoping he might already be asleep.

He grabbed her arm, instantly awake. “Don’t leave me.”

Adriana pulled away. “I’m not going far. You need some clothes. I need some groceries.”

“You need to get away from me.”

“That, too.”

“At least you’re honest.”

He reached out and stroked her cheek with his thumb and Adriana flinched. “Don’t touch me.”

He smiled and closed his eyes.

“Don’t be long. Please.”

The home in Encino was tucked away behind old magnolias and tall spreading cedars, with manicured grounds so magnificent Adriana hardly noticed the eight-foot-high black wrought-iron fencing that surrounded the two-acre parcel.

But she knew it was there, and why. Magnolia Acres was the kind of place where they kept people who acted like the stranger in her house, people who didn’t have a total grasp on reality.

Perhaps I should be locked away here, too,
she thought, laughing at herself as she drove her Mercedes through the gates that were immediately closed and locked behind her. If she told anyone what had happened last night, if she even hinted that she was close to believing the man in her house was Trevor Montgomery, she’d probably be tranquilized, put in a small, silent room, and observed by a dozen psychiatrists.

She didn’t plan to tell a soul, though. Stewart Rosenblum, her attorney and friend, would laugh, just as he always had when the subject of Trevor Montgomery came up. She could tell Stewart’s wife, Maggie, though. A man traveling through time was something she’d relish. It would be a kick. She’d
probably ask him to go out dancing, to tell her stories about the past.

Maggie, however, would probably tell the entire world what had happened, and Adriana’s name would be back in the papers. She couldn’t let that happen. Not again.

She planned to keep the man’s presence a secret. She planned to find out if he was a fraud, or if he was telling the truth, as difficult as that was to believe.

So she sought out Janet Julian, a woman who’d lived within the protective confines of Magnolia Acres for sixty years, a woman whose mind wasn’t any more well balanced than the intruder’s.

Adriana hoped that Janet might be able to offer some insight on Trevor Montgomery. Of course, everything depended on Janet’s frame of mind.

Adriana had visited the lady several times before. She was a connection to the past that Adriana had always wanted to know more about, and when she was lucid, Janet told wonderful stories about Hollywood and days gone by. Adriana rarely learned anything new, but she’d enjoyed listening, she’d laughed at the stories, and she’d kept the sweet old lady company. Occasionally Janet would venture to talk of her infatuation with Trevor Montgomery, but that’s when the tears would come. When she remembered the last time she’d seen him, lying facedown in the pool at Sparta, she’d begin to cry. There’d be no more stories after that.

Today, Adriana hoped to keep the conversation away from that moment. She wanted to know more about Janet’s earlier days with Trevor. She wanted to know if there was anything about the man that no one else would know.

Somehow she had to find some way to prove that the man in her home was not Trevor Montgomery.
Her mind would be at ease then, and she could readily tell him to leave.

Adriana climbed from the metallic green Mercedes and was halfway to the front steps when Charlie Beck came from around the corner. The gray-haired gentleman in baggy charcoal trousers and a tweed jacket walked toward her with the aid of a cane. His shoulders were stooped, but his clear brown eyes sparkled.

“Good afternoon, Miss Howard,” he said, balancing on the cane as he stopped in front of her and held out a hand in greeting.

“Hello, Mr. Beck. Dr. Andrews told me you were with Janet today. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

“We never mind having you drop by. You’re the only company she has besides me. She gets lonely, you know.”

His brown eyes misted, and Adriana could easily see Charlie’s love for Janet. He’d been her constant companion for sixty years.

“How is Janet today?” Adriana asked.

“Quiet.”

Not a good sign. Still she’d try to strike up a conversation.

Charlie looped his arm through Adriana’s and led her toward the gravel path that meandered through rose gardens and beds of camellias and azaleas until it reached the back of the house. The outside was lovely with the fragrance of abundant flowers and the sweet sounds of birds chirping, bees buzzing, and the whisper of wind through the deodora pines. The outside charm was a total contradiction to the antiseptic odors that permeated the old wood inside the house. It masked the pain of men and women who’d lost touch with reality.

Adriana sensed a lightness in Charlie’s step as they rounded the back of the house. There was a
faint twinkle in his eye and his lips turned up in smile. A moment later, Adriana saw the reason for his happiness.

Janet was seated in a white wicker armchair on the back verandah, a lacy pink afghan over her lap. She stared across the rose gardens, past a bubbling fountain, and off into nowhere.

Charlie placed a gentle kiss on Janet’s forehead.

“You have a visitor, dearest,” he said. “Your friend Adriana.”

Janet didn’t move. Her eyes didn’t flutter, not even when Charlie caressed her cheek. He looked at Adriana, worry showing clearly on his face as he stood by the side of the woman he so obviously loved.

Adriana scooted a chair close to Janet and squeezed the old lady’s hand. “I’ve brought you something special, Janet. Your favorite Godiva chocolates.”

Janet’s cloudy gray eyes continued to stare out across the yard.

Adriana tried to imagine the pretty young woman she’d seen in pictures, a petite brunette who was always laughing and gay. But that young lady had been replaced by a vacant shell, a woman with snowy white hair cropped close to her head for easy care, although someone—Charlie, more than likely—had been kind enough to fluff wispy curls about her face to soften the harshness of the cut. Her skin was smattered with dark red and brown blotches, and wrinkles made the skin sag at her eyes, her cheeks, her neck. She looked far older than eighty-two. She looked close to death.