Page 4 of Whispers of Torment

The gasp made her whirl, the name forgotten. John’s jaw was locked, but she knew he had issued that sound.

Her high heels clicked as she rushed to him. She leaned into his arms, feeling shakier, unbalanced. His expression was twisted yet plastic like a soda bottle tossed into flames.

She tuned out the tourist’s drawl and the marble plaque and the name Robert Albright, concentrating solely on John. His eyes were glazed as he stared at the tablets of names. She began to search the names for one that she may recognize from his painful past. But deep down, she felt an uneasy ripple, knowing if she cared to delve into her own consciousness, the name could be plucked from her own memory.

* * *

The spiny sea creature relaxed upon Lillian’s plate, so long that its scaled tail dangled off and touched her silverware. John eyed it and edged his plate away. She tossed her long braid over her shoulder and laughed. She loved seeing his disgust when she tried a new dish. She cracked into the shell and began spooning out the flesh. He averted his eyes.

The outdoor café was situated off the beach, but the ocean was always a warm neighbor in Oahu. The breeze blew straight at their faces, drying the sweat that slicked Lillian’s skin.

“It looks like rain,” John commented.

“So?”

“We’ll have to run for cover.”

“Why?” she asked around a mouthful of seafood. “My flower needs water.” She tipped her head up to the heavens as if to water the bloom she often wore tucked behind her ear.

He continued to dart glances at the grey clouds. The table vibrated as his knees bounced. His fingers drummed the top. She knew he needed to move, and soon.

For John, walking was essential. As a child in colonial Virginia, he had walked out of necessity. As a soldier his feet had carried him from battle to battle along the east coast. And later, when a horse or train or automobile became available, he said his legs were restless. To walk was to commune with the world, to be part of the whole. And a man who had spent over two centuries walking the earth must remain connected.

Minutes later they meandered toward the inner village. The mist dampened her hair and caused it to frizz about her temples. When the wind struck her full in the face, the wisps blew into her eyes.

Suddenly John stopped walking and spun her into his arms. He tenderly brushed the curls away and moved in with exquisite slowness, lips lowering inch by inch. Lillian shivered at his rough, unshaven jaw and sweet, searching kiss. She swayed against him, one hand lifting to grip his shirt front. The heat of him spread through her and sizzled down to lodge between her thighs. His taste alone could ignite her need. Couple that with his thorough tongue kiss and she was trembling for more.

He smiled into her eyes, anchored her to his side and continued their walk. As they strolled, he hummed a Mozart piece she’d heard him play many a time. When John’s fingers were set to the piano keys, he commanded the room. At the last party they attended, their host begged John to play. He threw his tuxedo tails over the piano bench and captivated the audience.

Lillian leaned against the piano to watch, memorizing the coal black hair of his jaw against the crisp white shirt he wore. The sight of his capable fingers rippling over the ivory keys brought her desire to the surface. She wriggled from her panties, looped them off her high heels, and dropped them into the pianist’s tip jar.

John’s eyes hooded and a rakish grin spread over his handsome features. When he’d finally gotten her in his clutches, they had combusted.

Wandering along the quaint streets together, Lillian’s head swung side to side, taking in the older houses that bore American flags and tropical plantings. She couldn’t see the blue-grey of the ocean from here, but the sound of breakers against the sands reached her. The feeling of déjà vu touched her too, and she drew to a halt.

The house before her was deep sea blue with white wooden shutters. A spattering of flowers grew beside the narrow steps. Without a second thought, she climbed the stairs and rapped on the door.

“Lillian?” John’s voice was faint, strangled.

“I….I think I know who lives here,” she said without turning to him.

Before she could knock, the door swung inward and a young boy faced her. Could he help her? She shook her head in confusion. A glimpse at the sunny yellow kitchen beyond dizzied her. The ghostly imprint of a porcelain jug of flowers flickered before her eyes.

“I have the wrong house.” She stumbled down the stairs. John caught her against him, and she felt a desperation in his touch that hadn’t been there before. Grip too tight, eyes crazed.

“What is it, John?” She yanked free of his hold and turned slow circles on the paved street. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. “What is it?”

Images crashed in on her like the far-off breakers, flipping through her mind rapid fire. Cowboy hat. Yellow kitchen. Jug of flowers. Feather mattress. Golden skin, golden hair.

Her lungs filled with a terrified scream, but before she let loose, darkness swam before her eyes, stifled her breathing.

He caught her before she hit the pavement.

Nathan scraped his fingers through his hair and glanced for the eighteenth time at the cluster of flight attendants near the open jet door. His throat clamped around a growl of frustration, and his thigh muscles coiled, prepared to leap up, stomp down the center aisle and demand to seal the hatch himself.

Modern man had evolved as far technology went, but when it came to old-fashioned common sense, they’d digressed. The door had been standing open for almost an hour. Was no one qualified to close it?

The man seated beside him alternately bumped Nathan’s elbow as he cradled his computer tablet, read a snippet of the daily news aloud or sought his opinion on the latest political scandal.

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