“You sleep with your eyes open, did you know that?” he’d said the next morning as he handed her a cup of coffee. “You were doing it that day at Norman’s Woe, and again last night.”
“You were watching me sleep?” Callie, horrified, had put down the coffee.
“No. I mean yes. Just for a few minutes. I heard you talking and sort of moaning, and I came down to see what was wrong. I thought you were having another nightmare.”
Waking memories, that’s what her psychologists had called them. The nuns had called them visions, another reason they’d found her frightening. Sleeping with her eyes open had been one of the things that had scared them about her. For a short time, she had even sleepwalked, which had made the nuns start locking her inside her room every night, fearing her escape. Her dreams were vivid, if disjointed, and she’d often awakened in a cold sweat, unable to get back to sleep until sunrise. For the most part, the dreams were snippets of memories from the night of the murders, details that came back unbidden and unwelcome.
“You didn’t think to wake me up?” she’d asked Paul, incredulous.
“By the time I got up the stairs, you had stopped moaning.”
“But you watched me anyway.”
“Yes,” he’d said, holding her gaze. “I did.” There was a definite sexual undertone.
“Well, stop it.” She’d scowled at him.
Now Emily’s disapproving expression mimicked her own that morning. It was clear Emily didn’t believe Callie and Paul were just friends.
“I’ll go if that’s what you want,” Callie said. She was getting used to being asked to move on. She tried to sound sincere, but her tone had an edge.
“Not necessarily.”
“Then what’s the point of this visit, Mother? Callie is trying to help Rose. And whomever I have as a guest is none of your business.”
“Given that this is still my house, and you’re still my son”—Emily frowned—“I’d say it’s very much my business.”
“Callie was accosted in Salem a few days ago. Did you know that?”
“No.” Emily’s tone was tentative.
“Well, she was. You may not realize this, but everyone in Salem seems to have picked up on it. Callie was the little girl who survived the Goddess Murders.”
Paul had already explained to Callie that Emily hadn’t moved to Pride’s Crossing and married Finn until a few months after the murders. Just months after that, Paul had been born. They hadn’t been in town when the murders happened, but they knew about them. Everybody did.
“Oh my God, Callie. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.” Emily stared at Callie as if trying to understand the full implications of what she’d just heard. “My God, what you must have gone through.”
“She apparently looks enough like her mother that Rafferty and Towner don’t think she should be staying in Salem.”
“What happened? Who accosted you?”
Callie looked at Paul, who nodded.
Callie related the story about the older man.
“?‘I knew you’d come back to me’?” Emily repeated. “What does that mean?”
“I think he believed I was my mother.”
“Then she got several calls from The Salem Journal, trying to persuade her to do an interview about the murders,” Paul interjected. “They wouldn’t leave her alone. And someone broke a window at the tearoom. She can’t stay in Salem now. So please, I don’t want you coming in here and telling her she can’t live in Pride’s Crossing, either.”
“If you’d be quiet and listen for a minute, you might give me half a chance to say what I came here to say.” Emily turned away from her son and spoke directly to Callie. “If you’re going to be our long-term guest, Callie, I’d like you to stay in the main house.”
“For the sake of appearances?” Paul asked.
“Not entirely.” Emily took a long breath, as if reconsidering, before she continued. “I would like you to treat me,” she said. “With those…bowl things.”
Callie had marked Emily’s expression from the moment she’d entered the boathouse. She’d believed she had been witnessing disapproval; now she realized she was seeing something else. “You’re in pain.”
“Yes,” Emily said.
Paul’s face softened.
“Is this something recent?” Callie wanted to know.
“It’s been intermittent. Until recently.”
“What does Dr. Hayes say?” Paul asked.
“Nothing he hasn’t said before.”
Callie thought for a long moment. Truth be told, she’d be relieved to get out of the boathouse. The whole place smelled like Paul: soap, sweat, and some kind of spice she had smelled at Ann’s shop that day she’d told Rafferty about her memory of the party. She hadn’t been as attracted to anyone as she was to Paul Whiting in, well, ever. It would be too easy to just walk up those stairs at night…not long ago, she would have. But ever since the waking memory she’d had at Hammond Castle, the vision of the naked man with Paul’s eyes, and Ann’s description of the Goddesses’ seductive behavior—she’d been more and more uncomfortable with her own sexuality. She’d never realized how much her behavior mirrored the Goddesses’. Intentional seductions followed by one-night stands with no attachments. A preference she’d always thought of as her own had now become something else. Was she unconsciously mirroring the behavior she’d seen as a child? The idea was disconcerting at best. At worst, it made her feel slightly ill. She wasn’t sure she could trust her own instincts, and in Paul’s house, under the same roof, those instincts were screaming at her. And then there was Paul’s obvious involvement with Ann. Her mind told her to keep her distance, even as her body was telling her otherwise.
“You don’t have to offer me a room in your house, Mrs. Whiting. I’ll treat you. I can find another place to stay.” Callie’s tone had become softer. This whole thing was getting too complicated, and Emily wasn’t well.
“Don’t be silly,” Emily said and smiled at Callie. “I want you to stay with us.”
It wasn’t true, and Callie knew it, but it was gracious. And in February, when Paul went back to Italy, she’d have the boathouse to herself. At least until she found a place to live, someplace she could take Rose to when she finally got out of the hospital.
“I’ll have to go to Northampton to get my singing bowls.”
She wasn’t certain, but she thought she read disappointment on Paul’s face.