Muriel Jensen - That Summer In Maine

He wasn’t sure why, but the words didn’t ring true. He was sure there was always someplace to go and something to do, but he didn’t think that assuaged her loneliness.

“Have a hot bath and a good sleep,” she said, blowing him a kiss, “and I’ll take you somewhere wonderful for dinner. Then we can arrange to send you home on the Concorde.”

She closed the door on him before he could tell her that he might go home on the Concorde, but he wasn’t going alone.

MAGGIE DIDN’T KNOW why she was shaking. She didn’t think this was fear. She’d kept her head throughout their captivity—well, except for when she’d mistaken Duffy for one of her captors and that had been an honest mistake—and the danger was over now. Everything that could hurt her had been dealt with effectively by Duffy March and the gendarmerie.

So, why was she shaking? She’d showered, put on her favorite white silk negligee, then found herself trembling like a pudding. She had to pull Duffy’s sweater back over her head to try to stop it.

Delayed reaction? she wondered, as she climbed in under the covers. But how could that be when she hadn’t really cared what had happened? When she’d simply shut down everything that could make her care?

Then it came to her. It was Duffy. It was that glimpse of life as it had been once, when it all still lay ahead of her full of hope and expectation. It was remembering the heroic little boy he’d been, determined to battle the asthma that plagued him, so that he could live a normal life.

Well, he’d certainly done it, she thought, reaching for her address book and phone. He’d grown tall and strong with the proportions and confidence of a tested athlete. She guessed he’d outgrown the asthma. She remembered that he’d embarked on a regimen to strengthen his muscles—and had been smart enough to know that the plan should include his brain. They’d often done homework together when she’d stayed with him, she fighting to understand the secrets of geometry that eluded her, and he doing extra reading in the subjects that interested him.

She closed her eyes and thought, with a lessening of the tremors, that it was good she’d had that glimpse of the old days. She could never be that Maggie again, but it was good to remember—though not for too long.

It wasn’t going to help to call her father, but she had to. She knew how much he worried about her in normal circumstances; she could just imagine what her kidnapping had done to him. She hadn’t seen him since the funeral, had resisted his pleas that she come home for a visit, because she’d have to be herself at home and she couldn’t face that yet. She got by only by playing role after role that allowed her to be someone else.

“Oh, Maggie!” he breathed when he heard her voice. “Sweetheart, I was so worried about you.”

“I know, Dad. I’m sorry.” She was grateful that her voice sounded strong and even. “I’m fine, I promise. And it’s such a treat to see Duffy.”

“I knew he’d keep you safe.”

“That he did.”

“Maggie…” He paused and she knew he was building up to something. “I want you to come home for a visit.”

“Daddy, I want to,” she lied, “but I have eight performances a week and I…”

“Don’t you have an understudy or something? I mean, didn’t someone else have to go on for you while you were kidnapped?”

She searched her mind frantically for a viable excuse.

“And, you know, I don’t like to worry you, but I haven’t been all that well since the attack, and I’d like to know…”

She sat up and leaned forward. “What attack?”

He hesitated.

“What attack?” she repeated.

“The heart attack.”

Her first thought was that he was putting her on—manipulating her. But he’d never done that before. And since she’d lost Harry and the boys, he tried particularly hard not to worry her.

“When did this happen?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well…because I was only in the hospital a few days, and the doctor said it was just a sort of warning to be careful. So I’ve been careful.”

He’d been careful, but her kidnapping probably hadn’t done much to keep him calm.

“Okay, Dad,” she said. “I’ll come. But I have to work it out with my director.”

“I’d love that, Maggie.” He sounded relieved.

She promised to do it soon and let him know her plans. Then she hung up the phone and lay stiffly against the headboard, feeling those curious tremors coming on again.

She couldn’t go home—but it sounded as though she had to. God.

She tried to make plans—to organize things in the hope it would make the tremors go away.

In the morning she’d call her travel agent to see about getting Duffy the next flight home on the Concorde. Then she’d call the bank and see about replacing her credit cards, her driver’s license, all the things she’d lost when the kidnappers had taken her backpack from her. They were probably still somewhere on the mountain. Life was going to be very inconvenient until everything was replaced.

Then she’d call her director and see about getting a week off in July. Exhaustion overtook her despite the tremors, and she fell asleep, thinking that if she was going to go home, she’d have to do it as a star—not as the real Maggie Lawton. That was the only way she could protect herself.

SHE DREAMED OF EVERYTHING that had happened—of her and Baldy and the Thickes visiting Gerard to help celebrate his birthday. Of the argument over what to do with the Sunday afternoon, then the decision to go hiking in the park. She saw the remote uphill spot, heard Prissie’s whiny remark about the trail being too steep and rocky, then the sudden appearance of men with Uzis.

She remembered very clearly the terror she’d felt that first instant. The absolutely horrifying threat she’d felt to her life and her safety. It had taken her a moment to remember that she didn’t care whether she lived or died.

The dream proceeded just as events had happened, except that there was no rescue. The government refused to negotiate, her father never called for the now big and capable Duffy March to rescue his little girl, and the gentle and enigmatic Eduard aimed his Uzi at her and fired.

She awoke feeling the pain in her chest, gasping for air in a complete panic—the last two years of horror distilled into that one moment.

Her bedroom door burst open, and she saw Duffy hesitate in the doorway.

She said his name and reached a hand toward him, caught in a nebulous world somewhere between her dream and reality.

“What?” he asked, hurrying toward her. He sat on the bed beside her and wrapped an arm around her. “Nightmare?”

She put a hand to her stomach and held it up to show him the blood. “I’ve been shot!” she whispered. “You were…too late.”

He put a hand to where her other hand pressed against her middle to stanch the flow of blood.

Damn the shaking! But she supposed if she was about to expire from a chest wound, she had the right to tremble.

“Maggie,” he said, holding her hand up in front of her face. “You’ve been dreaming. No blood, see? You haven’t been shot. You’re fine.”

“I am not fine!” she screamed at him. “I have a hole in my chest! Right…here!” She put a hand to the terrible burning pain and realized with the sudden clarity of wakefulness that it was an old pain. It wasn’t from a bullet at all, but from a two-year-old grief she was not going to be able to survive.

And now that she’d acknowledged it, the pain became more than she could bear. It had barbs and tentacles she’d controlled by suppressing it, but they now beat her and choked her and made her cry out in anguish.