The Shadow Wife

Sheila pulled away from him and sat down on the couch. “How long has it been going on?” she asked, wiping a hand over her wet cheek.

“There isn’t anything going on,” he said, moving his guitar from the sofa so he could sit next to her. “It happened one time. Then we cooled our relationship. Even you noticed it—that we were not as close.”

She nodded. “I noticed when you were getting too close, too,” she said.

“Sheila.” Liam shook his head. “I love Mara. I feel terrible about this. I feel as though I betrayed her.”

“You did,” she said. “Does everyone know?”

“No one knows. Just you, Joelle and myself.” And Carlynn Shire.

“What happens now?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Joelle and I haven’t really talked about it. I feel a responsibility to provide for the baby in some way. She and I will need to work that out.”

Sheila made her hands into fists, balling them up on her knees. “Every time I think about you and her—”

“Don’t think about it then, Sheila,” he said quickly. “I don’t.”

Sheila rested her head back on the sofa, shutting her eyes. It was another minute before she spoke. “Mara’s starting to use her arm more,” she said.

“I know.”

“Someday, maybe she’ll be able to hold Sam.”

He nodded, unwilling to tackle her denial tonight.

Sheila got to her feet and picked up her purse from the floor. Liam stood, as well, walking her to the door.

“Goodbye,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow when you bring Sam over.”

“All right.” He opened the door for her and watched her walk out onto the porch and down the steps. “Sheila?” he called to her as she crossed the yard, walking toward the carport. “Did a psychic really tell you this?”

“Yes,” she said, “but to be honest, I already knew.”

He walked back into the living room and sat down again on the sofa, but he didn’t bother to pick up his guitar. Resting his head against the back of the couch, he stared up at the ceiling, then closed his eyes.

He’d told Sheila the truth, but he’d also told her a lie. He’d told her he didn’t think about that night when he and Joelle made love. Lately, he thought about it all the time. He thought about how much he wanted to be with her at night. It didn’t have anything to do with sex. Not really. He just wanted to hold her in bed and to feel his child through the skin of her belly. The longing burned inside him and, at times, he wished she had moved away and kept her secret from him forever. It would have made it so much easier.

33

Big Sur, 1967

THE FOG WAS DENSE AND DISORIENTING. CARLYNN DROVE ALONG Highway One at ten miles an hour, afraid to go any faster for fear she’d sail right off the cliff into the Pacific. It had been a long time since she’d been down this stretch of coast. She remembered it as winding and treacherous, but breathtakingly beautiful, as well. The beauty was lost on her at the moment, though, as she neared the Bixby Bridge. She had never liked this bridge. It was far too high, the expanse between the two cliffs far too long. She had to stop the car before driving onto it, licking her lips and gathering up her courage. “It’s just a road,” she told herself and started across. Fog swirled beneath the bridge, and she supposed it was just as well that it camouflaged the distance between herself and Bixby Creek, far below. Once she reached the other side of the bridge, she let out her breath. Not that the road she was on, which hugged the bluffs high above the ocean, was much better.

Highway One was always a work in progress along the stretch between the Monterey Peninsula and Big Sur. It was subject to floods and landslides and forest fires, and if there were boulders or fallen trees littering the road ahead of her, she wouldn’t know it until it was too late because of the opaque, cottony fog. There were also very few other cars. For a summer’s day, that seemed odd to her, but she supposed it was the weather that was keeping tourists away. Maybe they knew better than to drive when the fog was this thick. The route to the Cabrial Commune was only thirty or so miles past Monterey, Penny had told her. Carlynn hadn’t known they were to be the thirty slowest miles of her life.

Penny Everett had called earlier that week. Carlynn had been in her office at the center, looking over Alan’s initial draft for a brilliant research project he was designing, when Lisbeth buzzed her on the intercom.

“Phone call for you, Carlynn,” she’d said. “It’s Penny Everett!”

“You’re kidding!” Carlynn had set down her pen and picked up the phone. “Penny?”

“Oh, Carlynn.” The voice was a whisper. “I’m so glad I could reach you.”

The woman didn’t sound like Penny, and for a brief moment Carlynn wondered if it might be a desperate patient scheming to get in to see her. It had happened before.

“Penny? What’s wrong with your voice?” she asked. “You sound terrible.”

“I know. That’s why I’m calling. I hate to bother you…I know you must be terribly busy. But I was wondering if there’s any chance you could help me.”