Burning Books Page 11

  He smiled. Time stopped. Molly forgot to breathe.

  “I’m prattling, aren’t I?”

  “Do men prattle? I thought that was more a feminine thing.”

  His smile pulled into a grin. “For the life of me, I can’t think of a more masculine word for it.” He swept his arm out as though presenting her with a magnificent gift. “The kitchen, where we’ll be dining. I hope you don’t mind. The dining room is rather formal and didn’t seem appropriate for tonight.”

  “My brother and I eat in our kitchen all the time,” she assured him. “And you have a lovely kitchen.”

  He did. Granite counters in warm, gold tones streaked and flecked with black, honey-colored cabinetry with decorative crown molding and chunky, brushed-copper knobs, and distressed acacia-wood floors made the room cozy and welcoming. A round, glass table occupied a dining nook off to the side, half surrounded by bay windows looking out into a drenched garden. The table was set informally, with salad plates and empty spaces waiting for soup bowls. Thank God she’d decided to forego lunch in anticipation of dinner. She’d figured if he served tiny gourmet portions, she could always swing through a fast-food drive-thru on her way home, but she hadn’t wanted to load up on lunch in case he served normal meals.

  She turned at a stifled giggle behind her, just glimpsing a small face disappearing around the corner. A red-faced, bespectacled teenage girl with a long braid came huffing up to the door, each hand reaching out to collar a child.

  “They escaped. They’re really curious. I’m sorry, Dr. Welch.” The girl was curious herself, judging from the way she studiously avoided looking at Molly except for the tiniest darting glances.

  “Not at all, Lacey. Molly, these are my children, Bronwen and Fletcher, and their ever-suffering sitter, Lacey. Kids—and Lacey—this is Molly McKinley, a friend I’m helping with a literature project.”

  That was one way of putting it.

  His children were cute, their near-perfect manners marred ever so slightly by mischievous giggling. Fletcher had his father’s eyes; Bronwen, her father’s smile. Both were fair-haired. After they had been corralled and herded back to the family room to finish homework, Cary casually imparted that their mother was blonde but said no more about his missing wife.

  He invited her to sit and regaled her with tales of university life while he made her tea and carved up the pork loin, which looked to have a chunk already missing. (“The kids ate earlier so they could do homework and be out of our hair while we examine the book.”) His talk of academia sparked a fierce longing inside her akin to homesickness.

  “Did you go to college, Molly?”

  “I dual-degreed at community college and was in what I believe was my third year at university when the solar storm happened.”

  “What you believe . . .” He trailed off. “I see. It all lies in the missing year?”

  “Yes. I know I finished the autumn term because I have a printout of my grades. I must have been going back after spring break when the superstorm hit. It was the right timeframe. The news reports of the car accident that killed my parents indicate they were taking me back to school.”

  “How do they know?”

  “My book bag, I guess. I had my schoolbooks with me, as well as a few other college-related things. There are a lot of other unanswered questions that bother me sometimes, though.”

  “You’ve not gone back to school since the accident?”

  “No. I’ve just felt . . . I don’t know. In a kind of limbo.”

  He brought two loaded plates to the table, then two bowls straight from the oven. The pot holders gave him a homey look that was at odds with his sophisticated, urbane demeanor. French onion soup wafted a rich, heady aroma over the table, topped with the traditional cheesy croutons. A pitcher of water and one of iced tea and a bowl of salad already tossed with a fragrant vinaigrette were the last things he brought before sitting.

  “I considered wine—I have a great chardonnay that pairs well with pork—but I figured if we were playing with fire, we’d best not be drunk while we do it.”

  The book wasn’t the only fire they were playing with, but Molly smiled in agreement and concentrated on her soup. There would be no way to misconstrue this as anything other than a business dinner with the presence of onion soup.

  “You were speaking of unanswered questions before we started dinner.” He speared a chestnut-flecked Brussels sprout and popped it into his mouth, chewing idly while he watched her. Molly chased a bite of apple couscous with iced tea before answering.

  “I was nearly thirty, still living with my parents, still in college, and apparently with no car of my own, since they were driving me back. That leads to a number of questions.”

  “A lot of people near thirty are in college. Often it’s unexpected circumstances that necessitate a change in career, thus specialized training. And not everyone has a car. Perhaps you were conscious of the environment and chose public transportation instead.”

  She set her spoon in her bowl, giving him a level look over the table. “You have a way of polishing the possibilities to a blinding shine.”

  “And to what are you being blinded?”

  “The truth, maybe.” She wished he had poured wine. Wine would make these admissions come more easily, the embarrassment of them delayed until sobriety hit, long after she was away from him and didn’t have to face his reaction.

  He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully, his eyes holding hers. She felt his gaze as though it probed through her skin and into the very cells of her body. She couldn’t have moved if she tried, couldn’t have run if she’d wanted to.

  “Now of what truths could you—you—possibly be afraid, Molly McKinley? I can’t imagine your having a criminal background.”

  “Not criminal, no, but possibly equally scandalous.”

  He laid down his fork and leaned over his plate. “How delightful,” he whispered. “Tell me everything.”

  She did, because there was no denying those eyes when paired with that smile. From her nagging suspicion that she was the reason her parents had died to the questionable items in her wardrobe that she couldn’t remember purchasing or wearing, she spilled it all. When she mentioned the red lace camisole and matching panties from her dream, his eyes widened and his nostrils flared.

  “Does that mean something to you?”

  Cary scooted his plate out of the way and leaned his elbows on the table. “Perhaps it’s merely coincidental, but I’ve been having a recurring dream the last couple of nights of a woman in a red nightie. And a . . .” He trailed off. His hand made a motion near his throat, like he was fingering a necklace.

  Molly leaned over her own plate, in danger of dipping her breasts into her Brussels sprouts. “Did she wear a necklace?”

  He stared at her blankly for a second, then waved his hand in defeat. “It’s gone. I can remember only the barest of details. Just red lace. Blood-red lace.”

  “Could we possibly be having the same dream?”

  “I don’t see how. We just met.”

  “Did we?” At his raised brow, she rushed on before she lost her nerve. “You yourself said I seemed familiar. What if we met during the missing year? It wouldn’t be unusual; my parents frequently traveled in academic circles. I was a student at the university where you teach. Maybe that’s why I seem familiar.”

  “It’s a distinct possibility.” He gazed at her for a moment longer, but instead of pursuing the possibility of having known each other before the cataclysm, he said, “Tell me about your brother. Has he always presented social difficulties?”

  Magnus was a topic that could fill several weeks, so it wasn’t hard to pass the remainder of dinner in conversation. Although she would be slightly horrified later by her openness, she poured out all her wishes and fears and annoyances regarding her twin. When they first met, she’d wanted to pull her chair close to him and talk for hours, and now she was doing just that. She didn’t even mind when he made suggestions of
modifying her behavior toward Magnus to direct him to more positive responses, or that he didn’t argue when she confessed she might be a little overbearing when dealing with her troubled brother. Cary Welch had a comforting presence, and while there was the merest suggestion of an iron core, it presented itself so smoothly and subtly, it was barely noticeable.

  When they finished eating, Molly helped him clear the table despite his protests. He wiped down the table and tossed a handful of peppermint candies onto it—“To combat the onion soup”—as Molly took the silk-wrapped book from her capacious purse.

  “You seem destined never to wear that blouse again,” Cary remarked. Molly grinned.

  “At least not while I’m reading these books. If they all burn like the first one did, I won’t have anything left to wrap in silk.”

  His magnificent eyes drifted lazily from her shoulders to her hips, and he murmured, “I beg to differ.”

  She blinked. With the next blink, he was unwrapping a peppermint, his eyes on the puddle of cinnamon silk on his table. The candy disappeared into his mouth. He pulled on white silk gloves, which he seemed to conjure from nowhere, but he didn’t immediately reach for the book.

  “Were you able to write an outline for me?”

  With monumental effort, she managed to keep from blushing. Was it your voice I heard in my vision, your hand over mine? Did I know you before the solar storm? Are you why my closet is filled with provocative clothing? The question she most wanted to ask—Did we have an affair while I was at school?—was also the one whose answer she most feared.

  Who were you two years ago, Molly? The kind of woman who bought shirts with plunging necklines and one button? Who wore red lace for her married lover? When did you become that kind of woman? Because you sure weren’t her before the superstorm, and I’d like to think you’re not her now.

  “It’s a summary rather than an outline.” She handed over the printed pages, shoving aside the damning reminder from her conscience that she was wearing the clinging, green sweater dress with the low-cut neckline, sitting unchaperoned in the kitchen of a married man, so perhaps she was that kind of woman.

  He read silently, only the occasional arching of his brow signaling his reaction to what he read. When he was done, he set the summary aside and reached for the book, unwinding its silk wrapping and draping it over the back of the chair next to him, out of the way. With a here we go look at Molly, he opened the green cover. And sighed in disappointment.

  “I still can’t read it.”

  “Did you expect to?”

  “I thought perhaps knowing the story might be a trigger to being able to read the words. But they still swim.” He pushed the book in front of her and tugged off the gloves.

  “Should we have a bowl or a pan or something, just to be safe?”

  He shot out of his chair and ducked into a cupboard, bringing back a deep, heavy stockpot. “Good thinking. I have some flame-retardant pot holders if you’d like to hold the book in them to protect your hands from the fire.”

  She stared at him blankly for a second. Had she forgotten to tell him? She had mentioned the book burning, but now she couldn’t recall exactly how she’d described it to him.

  “The flames have no heat. I held the first book for several seconds before dropping it into a metal dish. No burns, no blisters, no smudges.”

  He caught her hands, which she had held up for him to see, and pulled them closer to examine them. She stopped breathing again. This time, he was close enough to notice. His eyes raised to her face, studying it with as much concentration as he had given her hands.

  “Hmm.” He released her hands. She drew them back and clutched the book. “So, we’re picking up where this woman realizes someone’s been in her house.” He paused. “She’s not very bright, is she?”

  Molly burst out laughing. “I call her Idiot Woman.”

  He chuckled. “It’s apt. Please, read.”

  Turning to the page where she’d left off, she opened her mouth to read. The words on the page made no sense. They looked like English and seemed familiar, but they held no meaning for her. She may as well have been looking at a language completely foreign to her.

  “Molly?”

  “I can’t read it. The words are meaningless.” Stricken, she looked up at him. “I don’t understand. I read it just fine up to this point. Why would it change?”

  “Because you’re reading it out loud, perhaps? Try reading it silently.”

  She looked back down at the book. The letters lay in orderly sequences but still were no more than a meaningless jumble.

  “It’s no good. I’ve lost the ability to read it.” Her hands trembled as she closed the cover. “I was convinced it was just chemistry.”

  “It still could be, Molly. No, really, it could. The paper could be treated with something like a hallucinogenic.” His hand covered hers. “My father is examining the other books in his lab. I told you he wouldn’t be able to resist.”

  “Magnus is right. They’re more than just books. There’s no other explanation for what just happened.”

  Her eyes drifted to the summary she’d typed for him. Words he could read. Words she could read. Idiot Woman’s story, condensed into brief highlights. And now, she’d never know the end.

  “Burn the summary.”

  Cary frowned. “Burn it? But . . . Molly . . .”

  “I won’t be able to read the book until you burn the summary.” The certainty came out of nowhere, as though she’d plucked the thought from the very air, but she didn’t doubt it. When he made no move to do so, she persisted. “You have to burn it!” and reached around him, snatching the papers. His hand slammed down on them.

  “How am I going to keep track of the story? I won’t remember everything like you, Molly.” He pulled the pages out of her fingers with difficulty. “This is an incredibly well-written summary. I can’t believe you remember so much from text you’ve read once.”

  She stared at him. He looked back calmly. His eyes pulled her closer, so close that all she could see were splotches of vibrant, jewel-tone color made multidimensional by complementing striations. Then he blinked, and she was back across the table, never having actually moved.

  “I’ll tell you the story. But I can’t write it down again. I’m supposed to tell it. Please, Cary.” Her hand snaked across the table, tentative, still shaking. Her fingers gripped the paper around his. She didn’t pull. He would let go, or he wouldn’t.

  He held on. “Do you have a lighter?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  His fingers opened reluctantly, relinquishing possession of the papers. “I hide kitchen matches in the pantry where the kids can’t find them.” He paused, halfway out of his chair. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  The pantry was somewhere behind her. She didn’t watch him; her eyes remained locked on the open book on the table before her, half expecting the book to have sensed her intention of burning the summary. Surely, the words would make sense any moment now . . .

  A hand fell on her shoulder. Molly jumped. Cary set a box of wooden matches in front of her, then a bottle of wine and two glasses. He pulled his chair around beside hers and sat down. Molly’s entire body buzzed with awareness.

  “I believe you said wine was a bad idea when we’re playing with fire.”

  “The flame’s already lit. It’s too late to worry about it now.”

  Heat flushed through her from head to toe. He wasn’t talking about the summary or the book. She didn’t dare look up, didn’t dare meet those kaleidoscope eyes. Her fingers clumsily extracted a match from the box. He took it from her and struck it along the side of the box, holding the flame to the corner of the papers she held over the stockpot. Flame licked up the sheets with surprising speed. She dropped them into the pot and folded her hands on top of the book, closing her eyes. She was afraid to look.

  “Molly.” His hand was as gentle as his tone as he extricated the book. “Have some win
e.”

  A full glass sat before her. When had he poured? She didn’t remember him moving. She lifted the glass and gulped potent red wine, intimate and seductive, not the chardonnay he had lamented before dinner. A wisp of smoke rose out of the top of the pot. Her eyes followed it up until it dissipated. Cary stretched his arm along the back of her chair and leaned in close—so close his wine-scented breath sighed over her skin and stirred her hair.

  Don’t look at him, or you’ll cross that line between being the girl you think you are now and the girl you suspect you were during the missing year.

  She reached for the book and said thickly, “I’ll read.” Holding her breath, she opened the cover and looked down. The words blurred out of focus for a microsecond and then sharpened. Molly’s sigh of relief was audible—the words made sense.

  “Can you read?”

  “I’ve known how since I was four.” Her sidelong glance just barely caught his faint smile. “Now hush. Where we’re picking up the story is the point she suspects she knows her stalker.”

  It was inevitable, though it took him less time than I expected. The bungalow belongs to a distant cousin, not untraceable but certainly not the most obvious place I’d go to ground.

  I called a locksmith, who came out to change the locks immediately. The price for an emergency job was steep, but my father helped me pay for it. Likewise, he paid for a security company to install a system. I doubt a bug can even crawl across the window without triggering an alarm.

  Molly turned the page, darting a quick look at Cary before continuing. His eyes were trained on her lips, as though he’d been watching them form words. His gaze raised to hers with no embarrassment at being caught staring.

  “Do continue, Molly. You have a lovely reading voice.”

  Between the book, the outline, and her face, surely his kitchen should be aflame by now. Helpless to stop the color from flooding her face, she ducked her head, seeking refuge in Idiot Woman’s story. Her heart sank in dismay. There were only three lines remaining.