“No. We’ll be here at eight-thirty. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Bye, Casey.”
“See ya,” he called back.
Travis followed him out the door. Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought Casey walked most of the way, and used his crutches only for show. When they reached the car, Travis helped him in the back and fastened the seat belt.
In another minute they were on their way home. Instead of complaining, Casey played with the leash. “That was fun! I can’t wait to get my prize tomorrow.”
“Remember what Melissa said?”
“Yeah. I gotta walk all the way from the car into the building and not use my crutches. I can do that.”
Travis smiled tightly and didn’t ask any more questions. For the rest of the drive he remained immersed in thought. There’d been no preliminary discussion, and she’d given Travis no follow-up instructions. Nothing! It had irritated the hell out of him.
Not until he pulled in the driveway did he discover what was wrong with him.
There was an old saying about every person on earth having a double. This morning that saying had particular meaning for him.
He’d just come face-to-face with a woman who resembled, in looks and personality, his murdered wife, Valerie.
Travis was convinced that was the reason Casey had undergone a miraculous change at the therapist’s hands. Although she was a younger version, Melissa Dalton had Valerie’s sunny disposition and a way of making challenging things sound like fun. Her appealing energy had captured his son’s attention, and he’d wanted her approval. But the very qualities about her that had caused the first therapy session to go so well haunted Travis.
He dreaded the thought of having to see her again in the morning. It had been fifteen months since he’d buried his wife in Texas. Melissa had unwittingly brought certain memories back to life. Casey’s willingness to do what she wanted might have been unconscious, but his son had definitely responded because of deeply embedded memories, too.
It was going to be a long day and an even longer night, because Travis knew there’d be little sleep for him.
MELISSA LEFT FOR WORK on Tuesday morning curious to see if the skinny, brown-haired Stillman boy would let go of his crutches for good. She knew there was nothing wrong with him physically.
Probably never in her life had she seen such a handsome face or such sky-blue eyes. People would marvel over his remarkable features as he grew into manhood. Especially women. You needed to look no further than the boy’s father.
But on the adult version—the man appeared to be mid-thirties—there were differences. She’d seen the lines left by life and grief around his eyes and mouth, the shadow of a dark beard on his square jaw. The artist in her had caught the fierce gaze of arctic-blue eyes, distant and speculative. Almost forbidding. She shivered at the memory.
In the midst of her thoughts, she heard her cell ring. She reached for it and checked the caller ID. “Hi, Tom.”
“Hey, how was your Labor Day weekend?”
“Semiproductive.”
Unfortunately, she’d found herself looking over her shoulder quite a bit while doing her artwork. She’d been at the family cabin on her own, not for the first time this summer. Neither her parents, nor either of her two married siblings had used the place in August, yet increasingly she’d had a vague sense that someone other than herself had been there. Though she’d seen no signs of forced entry, there were little indications, such as books and lamps in places she didn’t remember them being, the bedding not made up the normal way, and signs of dirty footprints on the floor by the back door. It made her nervous at night, so she’d turned on the generator, hoping the resulting sound and lights would ward off intruders.
If she’d still had her bulldog, Spike, Melissa wouldn’t have felt so nervous. But soon after her divorce, her beloved pet had died of old age. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to get a new one. She couldn’t give an animal the time it deserved.
“Same here,” Tom said, jolting her back to the present. “I’m afraid my children didn’t leave me any time to write.” That meant he’d had visitation through the long weekend. “I’m glad you’re back. Let’s meet for dinner at Rinaldo’s in Bell Canyon Plaza after work.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. I promised the folks I’d spend the evening with them.” Melissa needed to talk to her parents about the problem at the cabin. After their whole family had gotten together there for a Fourth of July celebration, her parents had gone to Laguna Beach, California, for two weeks on their own. “How about lunch there on Thursday?” She would have finished her renderings by then. “I’ll bring everything you’ve been waiting for.”
“Not till Thursday? I guess I can wait. What time?”
“One o’clock?” It would be right after the Denton baby’s appointment. She had torticollis, a condition that curtailed her range of neck motion. Mrs. Denton fell apart emotionally every time she brought the baby for therapy. Melissa would need a break following the session.
“Okay, see you then. I’m looking forward to it.”
Melissa hung up, unable to say the same thing back to him. Tom Hunt was a prominent patent attorney specializing in intellectual properties. He was also a talented writer of children’s fiction. They’d met in March when he’d brought his son in for therapy because of knee pain. The eleven-year-old had Osgood-Schlatter disease, fortunately not too serious a case.
During the treatments, Tom had admired the paintings hanging in her office. When he’d learned she was the artist, he’d asked her if she’d be willing to do some sketches for a story he’d been working on. It was set during World War II, between two childhood friends whose countries were fighting on opposing sides. The subject appealed to her and she’d said yes. She’d started working closely with Tom, but despite his obvious interest, she had no desire for any sort of romantic relationship with him.
She knew he wanted to get married again, but in truth, the thought of marrying again herself filled her with dread.
Melissa had been young and in love when she’d married exciting, handsome Russell Dalton. But her dreams of living happily ever after were shattered when she realized she’d married an abuser.
Their seven-month marriage had come to an abrupt end the day he got home from his last college class. She was studying for finals at the kitchen table when he walked in, wanting to make love. Melissa had told him she needed to keep on studying, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’d jerked her out of the chair like a rag doll.
Shocked, she’d tried to push him away, and he’d responded by slapping her in the face so hard she fell to the floor. That blow had changed her life.
Though he was remorseful and swore it would never happen again, she’d grabbed her keys and run from the apartment and their life together. Divorce had followed.
Intellectually, she knew there were good men out in the universe who would make fine husbands. Over the past six years she’d dated quite a few of them. But the thought of taking the critical step into another marriage left her apprehensive.
To make her feelings clear to Tom, she never went out with him in the evening, or worked with him when his two children were on visitation. She shied away from any attachments. It wasn’t fair to his kids, when there could be no future. He should have gotten the point long before now.
Since her divorce, Melissa had reached a restful place where she was in control. She wanted to stay there. When Tom’s book was finished to his specifications, she’d decided, it would be the only project she’d do with him. After that, there wouldn’t be a reason to get together again, and they could part with no hard feelings.
After parking in her