Veil of Illusion

Chapter One

Summer came early to Connecticut, making it the hottest June on record. Caitlin Saunders lifted the hem of her long black skirt and peeled it away from her legs, fanning her overheated skin with the mass of dark fabric. She then linked arms with her mother, a gesture that Nora McKenna would ordinarily shrug off, and steered her across the cemetery to the waiting limousine.

You’re just like me now, Nora told her daughter. I was a young widow. And now you. Except you’re even younger. Only thirty-one. Still, history repeats, like a genetic flaw. I can’t believe David’s dead. A car accident of all things. She’d been saying the same thing in various ways for the past three days.

Mom, it’s okay. I’ll be okay. So will you.

Maybe you should come to Florida. Live with me. Women shouldn’t live alone. It’s not natural. I waited too long, honored your father’s memory too long. Now I have no one. Live with me until you find . . well, you know . . . don’t wait forever, like I did.

Caitlin patted her mother’s hand and then pulled away, breathing out against the heat, pushing her auburn hair away from her damp forehead. "You have me, mother. And women do live alone. I’ll be fine. Honest."

Hey, wait up. Liz Warner, Caitlin’s neighbor and best friend, ran to catch up with them and then slowed to their pace. Who’s that?

Who? Caitlin asked.

Him. Liz nodded over her left shoulder. Back there. Leaning against the tree. He’s been there the whole time.

All three women glanced over their shoulders as they continued walking. No idea, Caitlin shrugged.

Apparently no idea wasn’t good enough for Nora. She stopped abruptly, forcing Caitlin to a halt. Letting go of her daughter’s arm, she turned and stared at the man, her mouth drawn into a thin line of concentration. Hmmm . . . he wasn’t at the wake . . . not at the funeral services either.

How could you possibly know that? Caitlin asked. He’s too far away to tell.

Believe me, I know. Nora wagged a tanned finger at Caitlin. Your mother pays attention to things. It was the story of their life: Nora stating absolutes, Caitlin challenging them and then being made to feel foolish or inadequate.

You would do well to be more like me, Nora continued. Keep your eyes open, Caitlin. You’re starting all over again —

Yes, Mother, Caitlin said, rolling her eyes and throwing Liz a look of resignation. Nora was always keeping her eyes open. At sixty-one, she was still looking for just the right replacement for her long-dead, dear husband. But so far, no luck.

I saw that look, Nora said. I know what you think. You think I’m shallow and old-fashioned but you’ll see. You’re without a husband now. You’ll see how hard it is.

Don’t worry, Liz said, slipping her arms around Caitlin and Nora. I’m here for Catie. We’ll get her life back to normal.

Whatever that means, Caitlin thought. Normal left three days ago when David died. And then again last night, when Maryanne, her fifteen-year-old stepdaughter, packed up nearly everything she owned and left — right after the wake, without any warning and barely a word to anyone — back to live with her mother. Normal. Was there any such thing?

Let’s go, Caitlin said, tugging at her mother’s arm. Everyone’s probably back at the house by now.

As they hurried toward the waiting limousine, Caitlin glanced back over her shoulder, but the man leaning against the tree had disappeared.

* * *

Derrick Secor could have attended the wake and funeral, paid his respects like all of David’s other friends. An old pal, from high school, he would have told her. And it would have been the truth. But he decided to hang back instead. He liked watching her from a distance. There was something sensuous in the way she pulled her skirt away from her legs, fanning herself in the heat. She was a looker. This was good. Seemed nice, too, the way she took care of the older woman. Probably her mother. Not that nice really mattered.

He’d pay her a visit — one-on-one — when everything had calmed down, when she was alone, and lonely, when she would need him. Meanwhile, he’d make a trip back home, see his dad, visit David’s parents. The Saunders would fill him in on things, give him the bits of information he needed to pay David back for all his good deeds. Yep, that’s the way it would go.

* * *

Everybody stayed at Caitlin’s house far too long after the funeral, eating, drinking, telling old stories. It was as though by leaving — getting back into the rhythm of their daily lives — they were accepting David’s death. And nobody was quite ready to do that.

Eventually, as night claimed the day, folks did head out, one by one, hugging Caitlin, promising to see her soon, promising things would get better. Friends gave Nora a ride to the airport. Liz cleaned up, putting away left-over pastries and casseroles. Still, David’s parents lingered, hunched over in matching wing chairs, unable to understand how their only child could be dead when they were still alive. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t the natural order of things. And where was Maryanne? they kept asking. She was David’s daughter — their only grandchild — she should have come back with them after the funeral. Why didn’t she? Nothing made sense to them. Or to Caitlin.

When they finally did leave, the silence was shattering. Caitlin slipped into an old cotton nightgown, soft from years of washing, and crawled into bed. Her body throbbed with the pain of being alive. All she wanted to do was escape. She closed her eyes tightly, willing herself to relax, concentrating on the breeze from a small oscillating fan as it played with strands of her hair, then washing across her face before moving away to travel the length of her body. Through the open windows, she could hear the buzzing of insects and the occasional thumping of a stray June bug as it threw itself against the screen.

She wriggled beneath the sheet, surrendering to the heaviness around her. She slept fitfully at first, but then fell into an unnatural stillness, as though suspended in time and space. While she slept, she had a sense of slipping away from her body — her mind fully awake as she watched her sleeping self from the outside — both participant and observer in a dream more real than reality.

Paralyzed by what seemed like a drug-induced sleep, Caitlin was unable to move, unable to unite mind and body, which now seemed distinctly separate to her. Her conscious self moved upward toward the ceiling and then toward the open window. It was then that she noticed the slender silver cord that seemed to keep her safely inside the dream. Looking out toward the midnight sky, she wondered how far she could go without severing its hold on her.

David called to her. He was there, right beyond her reach. She could hear him now, beckoning her to follow. Could she trust the dream? If only she could know for sure — she would go . . . she would follow the voice . . . David’s voice . . . the voice that spoke no words. But she hesitated, and in that hesitation, fear seeped in, turning the dream into nightmarish shades of black and purple.

It was then that Caitlin’s body fought against its paralysis. Her arms and legs thrashed, kicking away the sheet, pushing hard through the heavy air. Sweat soaked through her nightgown. She gasped for air as she shot into a sitting position.

No! Stop . . . stop! she screamed into the empty room.

With a loud swishing sound, and a sudden rush of air, the silver cord retracted and Caitlin was fully awake.

She drew herself up against the headboard, hugging her knees to her chest, trembling and cold, despite the heat. The fan continued to wash warm air across her body. Outside, the June air, heavy the scent of honeysuckle, seemed still and unnaturally quiet. Only an occasional cricket or far-away car broke the silence.

All night, she sat and listened and watched, afraid to sleep, afraid of what sleep might bring. And all night, she couldn’t get the sound out of her mind — the loud swishing sound that penetrated skin and bones with laser-like precision and seemed to settle somewhere deep inside her.

Chapter Two

For days after the funeral, Caitlin read and re-read sympathy cards, ignored endless well-meaning phone calls and formed a pile of unopened, unpaid bills. That had been David’s territory, paying bills, keeping them on track and above water. Now it was hers. Eventually. Eventually it would be hers. But not yet. If she started taking over, that would mean he was really gone. For now, in her mind, he was just away. She’d make up stories for herself: one day, he was off on a fishing trip with the guys, the next minute, she was sure he’d just gone home to see his folks, back later today.

When she could no longer bear her own stories or the chiming of the grandfather clock, signaling hour after hour of nothing, she got up one hot morning, put on her office clothes and headed to work. Now, sitting there, pushing papers around, pretending she cared, she wondered if she’d done the right thing. Maybe Liz was right. Maybe it was too soon.

The air conditioner blasted waves of cold across her back. She shivered and pulled her linen blazer tightly to her body, as though that one simple action would melt the layer of ice just beneath her skin. Oh for God’s sake, she said, getting up from behind her desk. "It’s summer out. It’s supposed to be hot. If you all like the cold so much, move to Alaska." She pushed the thermostat up to seventy-four with a determination that challenged anyone to stop her.

She looked around the large one-room office. It was exactly the same as before. Her life, she noted, would forever be divided into before and after. And in this after-world, it seemed that nothing had changed.

Just like every other morning, the sun fell in patches, filtering through the large red maple on the office’s front lawn, creating a mosaic of squares and rectangles on the walls and hardwood floor. Mahogany desks gleamed in the bright light. In late evening, brass desk lamps would burn softly, casting a warm glow on the oriental rug, woven in shades of navy, ivory, and burnished copper. It was a room filled with grace and the sense of old money, the perfect setting for a real estate office in an upscale Yankee town. If it really was the same, Caitlin wondered, why did she feel so misplaced?

Making her way through phone messages and unopened mail, Caitlin wished someone had at least made neat stacks of the papers and files she’d left scattered on top of her desk when she thought she’d be back the next morning. That was nine days ago. A lifetime ago. David’s lifetime. But a hard rule in the real estate business is never, ever, touch another agent’s desk. She regretted now being involved in a business where people didn’t trust each other.

You okay? Lauren asked as she hung up the phone. She’d done little more than offer a quick, embarrassed hello since Caitlin had arrived. Maybe we shouldn’t have left you alone all morning. We were trying to be normal, give you space and all that crap. Do you wanna' talk?

Before Caitlin could answer, Debbie shot across the room, landing in the chair by Caitlin’s desk, her brown hair flying in every direction, strands standing on end long after she had settled down. Ditzy Debbie. That’s what they called her. Now that Lauren had broken the ice, it was just like Debbie to want to tell Caitlin, in great detail, how David’s death was affecting her.

I’ve been crying and crying. Can’t seem to stop. Debbie dabbed at her eyes with a worn tissue. I can’t sleep. I can barely eat. I just don’t know how you’re doing it. Imagine, losing your husband, no warning. Just like that. She tried snapping her fingers but no sound came out.

Lauren rolled her eyes and handed Debbie a fresh Kleenex. We’ve missed you, she told Caitlin, her large breasts resting on the desk’s surface as she leaned across it. "Nobody’s griped about the air conditioning in way too long. Deb here has been weeping at everything, even more than usual for a woman with out-of-whack hormones. And you know it’s not just postpartum — your grief is her grief. Anybody’s grief is her grief. Even she’s been out of sorts." Lauren nodded toward Amelia, formal and controlled Amelia Simpson, owner of Colonial Realty and a descendent of one of the first families to settle Riverside, Connecticut. While Lauren lowered her voice for the last bit of information, she clipped her words in an attempt to emulate Amelia’s precise manner of speaking.

But the humor was lost on Caitlin. I’m going to lunch, she said, ducking under her desk for her purse.

Honey, it’s not even noon. Lauren tapped the face of her watch, you can’t go yet. Besides I thought we’d go together.

I’m going now. Caitlin stood up and pushed passed them — these friends who didn’t know how to be with her, the new widow, as though her condition was contagious and the only thing to keep it at bay was distance or awkward, insensitive humor. I’m sorry. I need some air. She rushed out the front door before they could stop her, before she had a chance to figure out exactly what she would do next.

Closing the heavy door behind her, Caitlin took a few steps forward and then stopped; she stood perfectly still, looking down the long front walk that led to Main Street, wondering what to do with herself. She didn’t really feel like eating. Especially alone. But she couldn’t go back in either. So now what?

Coming toward her was a small-framed woman with short, jet-black hair and tanned skin. She was wearing a cotton turquoise dress with a full skirt that gently grazed her bare legs. A silver chain rested on her neck and hung low on her dress, a nugget of clear crystal dangling from the chain, bobbing up and down against her chest as she walked.

There was something familiar about the woman and Caitlin found herself staring, almost to the point of rudeness. They were about to pass, the woman’s full skirt nearly touching Caitlin’s straight one, when she stopped and looked hard at Caitlin.

Catie. Catie McKenna! The stranger practically shouted as she grabbed hold of Caitlin’s hand.

The noon rays were hot on Caitlin’s face as she struggled to maintain her composure. She hated being caught off guard. Even more, she hated people knowing more about her than she knew about them. And this woman knew her name. Actually, it’s Saunders, Caitlin said.

"Well you were McKenna, right?"

Well . . . yes, that’ right. And you’re. . .?

Josephine. Ford? Bennett High? Class of eighty-nine.

Josie! I didn’t recognize you. You look terrific. Not that you didn’t back then, but, wow, look at you. Caitlin openly stared at her old high school acquaintance, admiring the style she’d been able to achieve without actual beauty. Her nose was still too large, her fiery eyes too wide apart, but there was something about her, an odd combination of openness and mystery. What are you doing here?

Looking for a rent . . . I’d love a house, but at this rate, I’ll settle for a condo, even an apartment — I’d really like Riverside, though, especially Old Riverside, but everything’s so expensive. What about you?

I work here. I’m afraid we don’t have any rentals. But I’ll ask around, see what I can do.

Thanks. I’m getting desperate. I’m also starving. If there’s nothing here for me, no sense going in. Let’s have lunch and you can tell me all about the last 13 years. Has it really been that long? Don’t you still feel 18? By the way, you look pretty terrific yourself. You haven’t gained an ounce, lucky you. I’m always battling ten pounds. On again, off again. Mostly right here. She laughed, patting her behind.

Once she remembered who Josie was, Caitlin realized that she hadn’t really changed at all. She still talked like a runaway train, fast and all over the place. And she still had that look of something wild running loose inside her. Next to her, Caitlin felt like a geranium, the nice, no-risk variety — the house plant everyone could depend on. Nobody else since high school had made her feel quite like that; at least nobody that she had chosen to befriend all these years. Yet, there was something so compelling about Josie that Caitlin couldn’t help but be drawn in. Besides, here was a possible client.

How about Sweet Sensations, Caitlin said. It’s right down the street. They have soup, salad, light sandwiches. And the best pistachio ice cream in the world.

Just what I need. You’re on.

Sweet Sensations had been renovated to look like an old-fashioned ice cream parlor, right down to the soda fountain and swivel stools covered in red vinyl. Toward the end of the counter was a manual cash register that made a dinging sound when a sale was made and, at the very end, there was a small glass case filled with penny candy — fireballs, bubble gum, licorice whips. Caitlin and Josephine settled into a back booth, both ordering tuna on rye and iced tea.

And leave the check open for dessert, Josephine told the waitress before turning her attention to Caitlin. What a kick. You must come here all the time.

Sometimes. Not often.

Caitlin was sorry now that she’d agreed to lunch. The last time she’d been here was with David, a few weeks ago. They’d met for lunch and then walked down to the river, holding hands, peering into people’s backyards, trying to see into living room windows as they strolled by. They laughed a lot that day, especially when a woman caught them peeking around the corner of her house trying to get a better look at her landscaping and wild flower gardens. She shooed them away as though they were a couple of kids.

Caitlin put her fingers to her temples and tried to rub away the pain. A massive headache was settling in. David just died, she said, barely audible.

I’m sorry, what? Josie asked. Who just what?

David. My husband. He died. Nine days ago. I’m a widow.

Oh my God. I’m so sorry. How? Do you want to talk about it? She reached across the table and stroked Caitlin’s hand.

Car accident. This is my first day back to work.

I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry. Do you have kids?

No, Caitlin answered quickly. Well, not really. A stepdaughter. Fifteen. She was living with us, but she moved out the night of the wake. Before the funeral, can you believe it? She blames me for David’s death. Says it’s all my fault. But I can’t imagine why and she won’t tell me. Anyway. . .

They fell quiet, Josie unsure of what to say and Caitlin simply not wanting to talk. A hearty laugh from a table in the middle of the room broke their silence and Caitlin chuckled, wiping away tears that were ready to spill across her cheeks. I’m a lot of fun. Sorry. I was just thinking about how empty the house will be when I get home tonight. She pushed away her half-eaten sandwich.

Josie finished her lunch while Caitlin twisted her paper napkin into a long spiral and occasionally sipped her iced tea. As much as Josephine had a well-deserved reputation for talking, she’d apparently learned the art of listening along the way. Caitlin relaxed a little, feeling oddly safe with her, like she might with a stranger at a coffee counter. I had the strangest dream the night of David’s funeral, she blurted out. It still haunts me . . .

Wait. Before you start, let me order a dish of Double Dutch chocolate ice cream — one of my many weaknesses — and a dish of pistachio for you. Just pick at it if you don’t want the whole thing.

Josie took a spoonful of the rich dark chocolate, closing her eyes as it melted on her tongue and then trickled down her throat. You’re right. It’s fabulous. Worth every calorie. So, now, tell me about the dream. Don’t leave anything out.

Caitlin fidgeted with her spoon, taking small bites of ice cream. Well. . . She hesitated, started, stopped and then started again. Okay, it’s like this. I was lying in bed, totally exhausted, and I fell into this kind of paralyzing sleep. All of a sudden, it seemed like I was outside of myself, like my mind and body were separate things. I could look down and actually watch by body sleep. I mean, how weird is that? The part of me that was outside, if this makes any sense at all, wanted to join David. Whatever that means. I was by the window, looking out at the sky— she stopped, the memory too vivid to continue.

And then? Josie pushed. What happened?

I panicked. I woke up shouting and punching the air. There was this loud swishing sound. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, and then there was this silver cord. It disappeared, just gone, and it was like I was one person again.

Wow. Sounds like a classic out-of-body experience to me.

You mean like something out of a Shirley MacLaine movie? Caitlin laughed. I don’t think so."

Exactly like that. Josephine glanced at her watch quickly. Ohmygod, I’m late again. I really want to talk with you about this, but I have to pick up my daughter at Parks and Rec in, like, five minutes and it’s a twenty minute drive from here. By the way, I have somebody I want you to meet. His name is Marc Gallagher.

My God, Josie, David just died.

"What? Oh geeze, Catie, I didn’t mean . . . I’m not that insensitive. . . Marc’s a developer. Last time we talked, he mentioned looking for a piece of land up this way. I’m in public relations, she offered by way of explanation, always putting pieces together, looking for opportunities, that kind of thing."

Sorry.

Don’t be. Josie handed Caitlin money for her share of the bill and tip. I really have to run. Listen, I don’t think it was an accident that we met today after all these years. As a matter of fact, I’m convinced there are no accidents; everything happens for a reason. Here are my numbers, home, cell and work. She handed Caitlin her business card and then started for the door. Let’s get together on Saturday for breakfast or shopping or whatever, she called back over her shoulder. Meanwhile, try to find me a rent.

The door to Sweet Sensations shut with a bang. Through the window, Caitlin caught the sway of Josephine’s turquoise dress as she ran down the street toward her car. It was as though Josie was a hologram — three-dimensional and real one moment, a vaporizing swirl of color and energy the next. Her sudden departure left Caitlin with a disquieting emptiness and the uncanny feeling that something important had just begun.

Chapter Three

When she arrived home early that evening, there was a note from Liz taped to her front door: Come over for a swim and burgers. Kids would love to see you.

As tempting as a swim sounded, Caitlin wasn’t in the mood for chatter. And one thing Liz always had was chatter. It was her way of filling dead space, as though she was afraid of what would happen if everyone was quiet at once. Her conversations were full of everyday events and town news; in a way, she was soothing to be with because she demanded very little