And she did. She was going to find Mary’s grave, then see to it that mother and child were reburied together.
With that thought uppermost in her mind, she climbed into bed to watch the news. She saw her own face on the screen and watched in morbid fascination as a reporter came on to talk about her apparent ability to find bodies, an ability, the reporter claimed, that predated the death of her fiancé and her own terrible ordeal following the explosion at Hastings House.
Luckily, nothing was said about her living there now. People were still keeping mum on that subject.
As soon as the report was over, she found a station that was showing repeats of Gilligan’s Island and watched the adventures of the seven castaways until she felt herself drifting off at last.
She turned off the television, then lay awake wondering whether Matt would come to her in her dreams again.
She kept opening her eyes, looking into the shadows, willing him to appear.
Nothing.
At last she drifted to sleep.
And then he came.
Once again, she knew she was asleep, that she was dreaming. But it didn’t matter, because he was there. Long and hard and lean, as vital as he had been in life. He touched her, stroked her. She felt his fingers on her naked flesh, followed by the brush of his lips, as real as his kisses had ever been.
A caress down her spine…
Liquid fire on her breasts…
Pressure, thrusting, enfolding arms…
He whispered, “I love you so much, Leslie…. Oh, God, Leslie…”
She wanted the soaring, the hunger, the yearning…the passion, the tenderness and the volatility…to go on forever.
She was filled with the sweetest ache at the sheer intimacy that raged between them, at his natural physical grace. Together they strained, rocked, writhed together. She reveled in the hardness of his body, the shudder of his desire, the sudden explosion of his climax….
And basked in his arms, eternally around her.
His breath was soft against her ear as he sighed in complete sexual satisfaction. She could still feel his body, molded to hers.
She moved in his arms, as she had done so many times before. When they’d lived together they had often kept different hours. He would come in once she was asleep, and slowly, seductively, awaken her by making love to her.
And they would sometimes whisper about their days afterward, lying replete in each other’s arms, so it seemed the most natural thing in the world to talk to him now, even knowing it was only in her dreams.
“I met Joe today.”
“Joe, huh? Good guy. Sad history, though.”
“Oh?”
“He was madly in love with his high-school sweetheart.”
“And?”
“She died. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think he’s ever given up the ghost.”
The ghost.
“He’s an interesting guy,” she said.
“He is. He’s great. Listen to him.”
He nuzzled her neck, holding her more tightly.
“I thought he was you for a minute.”
“Yeah? I guess we did look alike.”
Then his lips found hers, and it started all over again.
It was her turn to whisper to him. “Matt, I love you so much. And I miss you so much, need you so much….”
He drew back slightly, looking down at her. “You can’t let yourself need me, Leslie.”
“I always will.”
“No,” he whispered, and then his touch took over. “Forgive me, but I just need a little more time.”
“Time?” she repeated.
He didn’t reply. Not with words.
She awoke, the dream still so real in her mind, and found herself naked, her bed a rumpled disaster.
She swore softly, deeply embarrassed, even though she was alone.
She closed her eyes, shook her head, then opened her eyes and looked across the room. A soft gasp escaped her.
Matt was there.
Sitting in the wing chair by the fireplace.
“Here I am…but it’s wrong. I shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“What?” Leslie murmured, so stunned that she could barely form the word.
“Sorry. Never mind. He’s right, you know.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t an accident.”
“Matt, talk to me, tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know anything. That’s the problem.”
She started to rise, tripped on the sheet, and by the time she untangled herself and looked toward the chair, he was gone as if he had never been.
As if their conversation had been nothing more than part of a desperate and wistful dream.
7