Who was he angry at? Her?
He took a step closer to the bed. She cringed and backed deeper into the flimsy protection of the pillows. A scream for help started building deep inside her, but her voice was choked off by the terror building in her throat. She swallowed the scream, knowing instinctively that, if she were to allow it to escape, she would be punished by the man. That those clenched fists would come down on her without regret for the pain they'd inflict.
Despite the cold fear that gripped her, she could feel her gown sticking to the sweat covering her quivering body. By now, she was shaking so hard that the bed vibrated beneath her.
"Please," she whispered. "Please don't hurt me."
When he took another step toward her, she allowed the suppressed scream to burst forth.
***
Carrie bolted upright in bed. A light sheen of sweat coated her shaking body. Her saturated gown stuck to her legs, hampering her frantic attempts to scramble from the bed. Finally free of the clinging fabric, she clambered to the floor and backed into a dark corner. Her breath tore from her lungs in short, desperate gasps.
Her gaze darted around the room, straining to find the intruder. She saw the bear talisman her grandmother had given her lying on the night table and snatched it up. Clutching it to her chest, she continued to search the room for the faceless dream man. But she found no one. She was completely alone. No would-be assailant hovered ready to attack. No one lurked in the shadows. No one was about to strike out at her. She was completely alone.
Heaving a sigh of relief, she collapsed onto the bed. She'd been dreaming. But who had that faceless man been? Was he someone from her past? Someone she couldn't remember? Or was he just a figment of her tortured imagination? Maybe the man beneath her window?
Quickly, she hurried to the open window and peered out to the gardens below. They were shadowed and quiet. The sweet fragrance of lilacs drifted up to her. She listened intently. The only sound that came to her was the gurgle of the stream, the chirp of the crickets, and the occasional hoot of an owl. Despite that, she remained at the window for a long time, watching and waiting, jumping at every rustling leaf, every flower nodding in the slight breeze. But no lone figure moved amid the snarl of flowers and bushes.
She returned to the bed and buried her face in her hands. It couldn't be the man from beneath the window. The man at her bedside had emanated pure evil, and she'd felt nothing but sadness from the man outside. If, indeed, there had been a man outside her window, and he had not been just another ghost from her tortured imagination.
Frustrated, she racked her brain to see if any of the things she recalled about the faceless man in her dream would clue her in to his identity. But nothing came. His nondescript brown hair and average build could belong to anyone. Without a face to identify him, she had no way to answer her own questions.
Even though she decided that the man was more than likely a result of something she'd eaten for supper, the terror remained. It wrapped her like a chilled blanket, the cold seeping into her very bones. Perhaps he was just a faceless dream figure. But perhaps he was a whole lot more.
***
"Good morning, my dear." Clara smiled cheerfully at her as Carrie stepped off the bottom stair into the keeping room.
"Mornin'," Carrie mumbled in response. She tried her best to add a smile, but her head throbbed, and every muscle and bone in her body loudly protested the lack of sleep.
"Bad night?"
"Hmm," Carrie mumbled in reply. Every movement, every verbalization, felt as though a thousand hammers pounded unmercifully at her temples.
"Have some coffee, dear. You'll be surprised at how much better you'll feel." Clara poured a cup of the life-giving liquid and set it in front of Carrie.
Eager for anything that would relieve the unrelenting pain slicing through her head, she took a tentative sip, and miraculously, the fatigue began to ebb from her body. With each successive sip, more of the tiredness left Carrie, eventually taking with it all signs of the merciless headache. She had no idea what Clara had added to the coffee, but whatever it was, she should bottle it. The old woman could retire to a mansion on the Riviera on what she'd make. But when Carrie looked around her, she couldn't imagine Clara in any other setting but this one. The hominess of the cottage suited her perfectly.
"That did the trick," she said, finally able to return Clara's smile. "Thanks."
"Always does," Clara said matter-of-factly and then headed for the cupboard near the fireplace. "I have something for you."
"For me?"
"Yes, Sara Spencer, the village shopkeeper, sent it over." From the cupboard she extracted a large, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string, and then carried it to the table and deposited it in front of Carrie.
Carrie looked at the package, then to Clara. "Why would she give me anything? She doesn't even know me."
"We all know you, Carrie, even if you don't know yourself." Clara's blue eyes sparkled. "If she sent it, she knows you need it. Sarah's stores are not always meant to nourish your physical hunger. Ofttimes they're meant to feed the soul and nurture the mind."
Puzzled by Clara's statement, Carrie untied the string holding the package together. Before she tore the paper off, she turned to Clara. "If you all know me, why can't you tell me anything about myself?"
"Those are things you have to learn for yourself. That's why you're here."
Still puzzled, Carrie let it go. Obviously, Clara was not going to tell her anything she didn't want her to know. Turning her attention back to the package, she slowly removed the paper. Inside rested a scarred wooden box about the size of a man's briefcase, its surface mottled with splashes of various colors of paint.
Carrie didn't stop to wonder how she knew how big a briefcase was. She'd grown accustomed to small bits of generic information popping up in her memory. Unfortunately, none of it helped her to remember the important things: who she was, where she'd come from, and how she'd ended up on that snowy street covered in blood.
Instead of dwelling on the unattainable, she gingerly opened the tarnished gold latch at the front of the box and lifted the lid. Inside the box, scattered about and obviously having been used, were tubes of oil paint, twisted and rolled up at the end like used toothpaste tubes. Beside them were brushes of various sizes, their handles stained with paint, their blond bristles clean and encased in clear plastic sleeves. On the bottom, an artist's palette, splotched with colorful blemishes, attested to its use.
Confusion and puzzlement drew her brows together. "I don't understand."
"It's yours, Carrie."
She glanced up at Clara. "Do I paint?"
Clara nodded and her mobcap wriggled and danced above her gray curls. "You used to."
"I used to?" The frown on her face deepened. "I don't understand. You mean I don't do it anymore?"
Clara sat beside her and took her hand, warming her cold fingers. "You haven't totally given it up, but your recent efforts have lost something. Once, long ago, you painted glorious pictures, Carrie. The pictures came straight from your heart. No one could look at them without seeing you and feeling your love for your subject. Recently, your paintings have lost that feeling. They've become harsh and devoid of that special love."
Carrie tried to absorb the information and process it into some form that would give rise to a memory, any memory. The fire crackled behind them. Birds chirped outside the window. She could hear Clara's soft breathing beside her. But the memories remained beyond her reach.
"Why did my paintings change so radically? Why did I stop?" she finally asked, looking imploringly at Clara for an answer.
But even as she asked, she could see Clara close down and knew no answer would be forthcoming.
"I'm afraid you'll have to discover that on your own, my dear."
Of course. Wasn't that why Irma and Meghan had sent her here, to find herself? To learn who she was, who she'd been, and who she could become? Carrie understood all that, but a hint would have been helpful to get her started down that path.
As if reading her thoughts, Clara pointed to a small, engraved plaque inside the lid of the box. The plaque read:
To Carrie Henderson, in recognition of her outstanding artistic talent, from her Fifth-Grade Art Teacher, Mrs. Virginia Carol
.
Remembering that the slip of paper she'd found in her pocket with her first name on it was from an art store, she smiled. "Is this me? Am I really an artist?"
Clara nodded. "It was presented to you as first prize in an art contest when you were ten years old. As you grew older, your talent matured into something very special… for a time… "
"But how did you get this?"
Clara said simply, "We have our ways."
Unable to totally believe what all this meant, Carrie stared at the box. This was a piece of her missing past. A part of who she had been. She read the words over and over, cherishing every letter. She wanted to tear the plaque from the wood and cradle it close.
Carrie Henderson
. She had a last name. She was
Carrie Henderson
. And she could paint. She was an artist. The knowledge made her feel like she did when she opened a longed-for gift.
As quickly as the elation had come, it vanished. She had no recollection of squeezing those tubes of paint, wielding those brushes across a brilliant white canvas and creating the pictures Clara had said she'd painted, or of being presented with what obviously had been a milestone in her life.
Overwhelming, depressing blankness filled her mind. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she blinked them away. Feeling sorry for herself wasn't going to do anything to bring back the memories. What, she wondered, would?
Clara stood, walked to the cupboard where she'd gotten the paint case, and then pulled two white canvases and a wooden easel from it and handed them to Carrie. "Go outside and see if you can remember how to create beauty on a blank canvas."
Obediently, Carrie picked up the canvases, the easel, and the paint set. "But I… "
Clara took her hand and squeezed it tight, then released it and eased Carrie toward the back door. "It'll come. Have faith and trust, and it will come."
Without further protest, Carrie quietly left the cottage and headed for the rock by the stream, where she hoped to rediscover this small piece of herself.
Chapter 6
Frank opened his eyes and blinked. Where in hell was he? He gazed around at the unfamiliar surroundings and waited for the gauzy veil of sleep to dissipate. As it did, the events of the previous day sifted into his mind. He was in a cottage in a strange little village that had materialized out of a mist. He'd been assigned a mentor of sorts, Alvin Tripp, a man who had closed himself off from everyone around him, including Frank.
Sitting up and swinging his feet to the floor, Frank cocked an ear, listening for any sign of movement in the outer room. Silence. Tripp was either still sleeping or he'd already left the cottage. Resigned to spending the day by himself, he poured water from the pitcher into the plain white porcelain bowl and washed the sleep from his face.
After he'd donned the clothes Tripp had indicated he'd find in the old dresser, Frank stood in front of the mirror. He smiled and smoothed his hands over the laundry-softened flannel. The red-and-black plaid shirt was too big, and the worn jeans had to be folded up at the cuffs, but they felt good. Homey, comfortable. Wearing someone else's clothes and waking up in someone else's house brought rise to a certain serenity.
Maybe that was the ultimate plan for him. Tripp would brainwash him into believing he was someone else, someone without a tortured past, someone who hadn't killed his wife and unborn child. Maybe the man would remove all memory of Sandy and the baby from his mind. Maybe that was the way he'd finally break free of his memories. But was that what he really wanted?
The smile melted from his face. He didn't want to forget Sandy or their baby. All he craved was to be free of the gnawing guilt that dogged him like a persistent specter. Taking on a new identity would not accomplish that. Besides, he didn't want a new identity. He liked who he was, and he loved being a pediatric cardiologist. All he really wanted was peace of mind, hope for a future with a little happiness, and maybe even a woman to love. Although right now the idea of loving anyone after Sandy seemed as remote as the African desert.
Unexpectedly, the woman he'd seen in the window the night before popped into his mind. Pushing her image away from him, Frank went into the outer room and found the meager breakfast Tripp had left him—a large slice of fresh-baked bread and a rosy, red apple. Frank got the unmistakable feeling that his so-called mentor was avoiding him. For a moment, he considered looking for Tripp, but then he tossed that idea. If Tripp didn't want to talk to him, who was Frank to hunt him down and insist? Certainly, if he did want to talk to Frank, he knew where to find him. This place wasn't all that expansive.
Grabbing the chunk of bread and apple from the table, he left the cottage.
Outside, the sun shown with a brilliance Frank had never seen before and comfortably warmed him through the flannel shirt. White, fluffy clouds dotted a sky so blue it almost blinded him to look at it. The heady fragrance of lilacs and roses drifted to him on the slight breeze stirring the trees, reminding him of his grandmother's garden where he'd played with all the innocence of a child who had no idea what demons crouched ready to invade his future.
Taking alternate bites of the apple's sweet, juicy flesh and the delicious bread, he chewed and strolled aimlessly along the path that gently meandered back and forth between the cottages, his spirit lighter than it had been in a very long time.
***
At the edge of the thick forest, Alvin kept an eye on Frank as he walked in the general direction of Clara Webb's cottage. Why had Emanuel given him this impossible task? How was he going to help this man?