Chapter 5

The room was dark, Jonathon thought as he stepped into the threshold of Erica's office. He stopped and gave himself a moment to just take her in. Erica was at her desk, the curtains drawn. The only light was the sun shimmering weakly through the curtains, enough light to see the gleaming wood of bookcases, neatly trimmed from end to end with books.

Large paintings of buildings graced the wall, their details hidden in the shadows. The only sound was that of the air-conditioning vent, circulating through the thick New Orleans air. The only movement was Erica's hand as she ran her fingers over a photograph's frame.

She looked … tired. His fingers curled into his hand because he wanted to reach out to her, to draw her in. The frown on her lips was echoed between her brows, the vibrant blue of her eyes shaded in the shadows of dim light.

No one needed to explain to him the reason for the difference in the Erica he saw now and the one that had been so open and free with him weeks ago. The paper containing another story of the investigation of her father's murder was tucked under his arm. While searching the Internet, trying to find out a place where they could meet once more on equal ground, he'd stumbled over a recently released Associated Press report announcing the reopening of three twenty year old cases.

One of them was for Gordon Caine, Erica's father.

He'd read as much as he'd been able in the moments he'd spent trying to get to her, scheduling a flight, waited for the plane, on the plane, and in a taxi. He'd used his skill over the Internet and his connections with the police department to gather more information then was his due.

And now he waited for Erica, knowing how little he really had a right to do for her.



Erica knew when Jonathon came to the door. While it was a shock to know that he was there, the surprise had already passed. The receptionist downstairs had called to warn Erica that Jonathon was on his way. Weeks ago, she had informed them that she wanted to see him. It hurt that it was only now, when she was surrounded by the depth and pain of a twenty-year-old murder investigation that he found the time to drop by.

She set the frame down and folded her hands.

"Hello, Jonathon." She spoke without looking at him.

He stepped forward, willing her to look at him. She did not. He pulled his autographed book from under his arm and held it out to her expectantly. "I was coming through town. Thought you might want this."

He set the book on her desk, watched her eyes look at it, but she didn't reach for it. Instead, her hands clamped together. "Thank you."

"I wanted to see you—"

Finally she looked at him, her gaze quietly numb. "I don't think we have anything else to say to each other."

"Don't we?"

"You want me to think so, when you wait until now to come?"

Her fingers dropped back to the frame. Even in the dim light, Jonathon could make out the photograph of Erica's father, a slightly balding man closer to his forties, whose name and photo Jonathon had come to recognize as he stumbled over the reopened murder investigation. The man held a little girl, he assumed was Erica, as they leaned close and touched their noses together.

Jonathon swallowed past the guilt. The controlled look on Erica's face had deteriorated, leaving her looking so very sad and uncertain. It gave him hope to know they were both feeling their way through here. "I waited until I couldn't wait anymore. I killed you off and you kept coming back. I couldn't get rid of you. I waited until I realized I didn't want to," he dropped his palms with a slap against her desk and leaned in close, watched those beautiful, but uncertain eyes widen considerably. "I think I'm going to have to have you kidnapped instead."

"Jonathon," Erica pushed shakily away her desk and stood, putting distance between them again, "you're not making any sense."

"No?" he slowly straightened and faced her across the desk. "Then listen to this. I killed you off. Wrote you into a story and wrote you right out violently. That only hurt more. I dreamt it, I thought it, I felt it. And even though it was fiction, it started to feel real. So I started tracking you, the real you, thinking that you wouldn't be stationary … wanting to meet up with you again. That's when I came across the news report on the Internet. It told me I would find you here."

"No," she shook her head, closed her eyes and saw dark, angry colors. How dare he mention his books and his skill so easily! He wasn't about to get a story from her life. "No—you can’t have this story. Not this one!"

"I’m not after a story. I wouldn’t do that to you. I know I waited too long. I know I hurt you."

"There's nothing left," she shook her head, slowly raising her eyes, "there's nothing left for us, Jonathon."

"Isn't there?" He slowly crossed his arm, his gaze trapping hers in a moment of truth. "We never had a chance to figure things out. It's not over between us. Not yet—not until we know for sure that the feelings were just passing through."

"What we had . . . was wonderful," she said slowly, lowering herself back into her chair where it was easier to avoid his gaze. Distance again, she thought, distance was her only shield. "More then wonderful, but it was—"

"Powerful."

"Fleeting."

He was around her desk before she could raise her resistance. He pulled her up, held her away from him, and leaned down so she would look him in the eye. "I know I made you feel that way … but it was fiction. Just fiction. The first time I saw you, I couldn't take my eyes off you. You captured my mind over a billiards game, my heart in a limo as we cruised around talking about our salvation. No one has made me want more then you—I want to live again. I want to fly again. Not for you," he said, shaking his head, "but for my Savior. I also want to see you fly. Remember? Remember all that was said. How we both needed and wanted more?"

"It was said because it was time," she told him.

"Yes," he agreed, stepping the least bit closer, "but when it was said it sealed. Tell me you don't remember, Erica. Tell me."

"I don't know!" she shouted, and jerked out of her own emotion, then sobbed as he pulled her close, his arms gentle and strong as they enveloped her. "Whatever we were feeling, whatever we thought . . . I can't think of it anymore. I'm . . . grateful, for what we said, for your spiritual encouragement, that I can never repay you for . . . but with all the other things … feelings … I don't know anything any more…

"Three months," she said, forcing out the words, "almost three months I waited, not knowing how to contact you, thinking you didn't want me to anyway. How am I supposed to feel now?"

"Hurt, angry, uncertain. Everything you're feeling now. I'm not denying you the right to have those emotions."

Jonathon's honesty impaled her, reminded her that whatever had happened in three months to keep him away, he was here now. Did it make a difference that he was here now when it was true that she needed him? She felt confused, lightheaded, unbalanced. She grasped his cool, cotton shirt, her cheek pressed against his strength. She closed her eyes, realized that she heard his heart.

"I wanted to see you, but you never came. You never came. And yesterday, when I was getting off the plane, there were so many police, so many reporters. I was so scared. I don't even remember most of it. I didn't even know how horrible it was . . . I wanted you, and you weren't here. "

"Shhh," he whispered, dropping a kiss on the top of her head as she cried, "I'm here now."

"You won't stay."

"I won't … I can’t make promises either way. I just came to see where this thing went between us. But I'm here for you now. Just hold on now."

* * * * *

Jonathon drove Erica home, not to the small apartment in New Orleans, but to the sweeping Plantation called Bella South two hours away, on the fringes of the growing town of Harmony. It was a grand place, in the tradition of thick trees lining the drive, bold columns and oversized front doors. The inside was … rich, immaculate.

He could only be grateful they slipped through quickly. He prayed with her in the garden and released her reluctantly. She needed to sleep. While she had let him back into her life for the moment, she had little of the enthusiasm he missed.

He settled in the parlor, a stately little room, watched the dying light through the window sill. Erica's childhood home was indeed a plantation, with a long front porch, tall ceilings and a sweeping foyer. Stairs that led to the second floor swept across the hardwood floors of the font room upward thirty feet. The rooms were lit for the most part with tall windows and cooled with long-armed fans.

He prayed as he sat in the empty room. It had been so long, he thought, since he could pray over the lumps of his past. His fault, his weakness, entirely.

He had left his badge behind six years ago, only to discover himself haunted. He'd taken first to countless notepads, then to his father's old computer, pounding out his frustrations into the keys. The plots had flowed alarmingly easy, emptying a vast sea of bitterness he hadn't realized had festered. Four years after his first book, he still felt the need to purge.

The first call from his old partner had startled him, breaking into the safety that his bitterness had allowed him. Later, the need grew to finish off what he'd started.

To end it for the boys he’d lost.

Now, there was Erica . . . .

"Mr. Burstin."

Jonathon glanced up, then stood, recognizing Lillian Caine from the countless photos he'd looked through on the Internet during his search for Erica. She was a striking woman, prim, graceful. Even under the stress he could see in her eyes she held herself poised and in control.

There was a man at her side, lightly balding, aged possibly into his sixties. His suit was tan, immaculate, and he looked like an old school southern lawyer. Erica's mother turned to the man, whispered a few words, and despite his obvious reluctance—shown in a final glance toward Jonathon—he disappeared.

"Ms. Caine."

She waved a graceful hand thoughtlessly in the air. "Lillian, please. Stella told me that you were here with Erica."

Well, Jonathon thought, right to the point. "We met a few weeks ago. Emma Dumont introduced us."

"Convenient, that you should show up now," she lifted an eyebrow. "Here for the latest suspense so that you can paint it into your little stories?"

"I know you think that," Jonathon said slowly in response to the challenge, "Erica thinks it, or she might, but . . . she's special to me. I hope she realizes that as well."

"She hasn't mentioned you before now."

"No, but—"

"But then, Erica doesn't mention much of anything to me. She never has," Lillian sighed and crossed the room to settled on an antique davenport, lifting her eyes to his with a thin smile as she crossed her legs in a single, smooth movement. "I’m not blaming her. I escaped into Gordon’s world, into the business. Erica found her own way. She was so close to her father. I tried to keep most of this away from her before . . . and I'm worried. I don't mind telling you that. I'm worried about what she will hear. What she will think. She was so young. She doesn’t know all."

"You were a suspect," Jonathon added, settling on the edge of a winged back chair only a few feet from where Lillian Caine sat.

"For a brief time."

Her tone was sharp, a warning, Jonathon thought. He lifted a hand in defense. "I only know because I care about Erica. I wanted to come in and be able to help both of you in any way that I can. I have connections. Not many in Louisiana, but a few I’ve gathered in my research and work."

"Then it may surprise you to find out that whatever you know, she might not," Lillian tilted her head, "Erica's never asked many questions about her father's . . . death. I don’t think she ever bothered to research it … and she could have, with the way things are on the internet these days. I’m sure you know that—more than even I would.”

“It was very hard, on both of us. Gordon was . . . a very special man. An incredible man. When she did ask questions, I answered. She . . . she's never opened herself to it. I never encouraged her to. She seems so frightened about the entire thing. Reporters, the like. I would hope you would let things unfold as they do."

"I have no intention of unsettling anything, Ms. Caine. I only want to . . . hold her hand, per se."

For a moment, Lillian held his gaze, assessing him. She glanced down, reached a hand out toward him, until he placed his own in hers. She studied it, running her hands over his. "Don't think that I'm an eccentric, Mr. Burstin. I just . . . Erica's father had such strong hands. He grew up here, at this plantation, when it was still a working plantation. He started the company, kept the farm going. When he was gone, so went the farm.

"He always had strong hands. Like yours. You're not a writer," she lifted her eyes to his and smiled, "not just a writer, anyway. I know many writers, who have no other profession, and their hands aren't like this. You hands are calloused, strong. You have the eyes of a writer, deep, thoughtful. You can tell that from your books, and yes, I have read a few. Your hands, Mr. Burstin, are worker's hands. Good to hold my daughter's hand with.

"So," Lillian swallowed and released his hand, the look in her eyes evolving into something less controlled, less comfortable, "Mr. Burstin . . . Jonathon … here's the whole point of this whole bit of craziness. I want you to know that I do love my daughter, very dearly. And the fact that she has someone in her life that she's allowed in this house shows me how much you do mean to her . . . so, if you are able, would you please tell me what there is between you and my daughter. How you two met?"

"I suppose. Are you acquainted with Emma Dumont?"

"Emma?" Lillian repeated with a surprised smile, a bit of sparkle overcoming the worry in her eyes. "Yes, that is what you said. I am very much acquainted. Do tell."

* * * * *

"Who was the man with your mother?"

"This afternoon?" Erica asked and frowned over it a little as she thought, "probably Baxley. Daniel Baxley. Slightly balding, clean shaven? Maybe a little … over protective?"

"Yeah."

"He's an old family friend. A good one. An off and on love interest for my mother, mostly off. I guess he's tried to fill in for my dad for me off and on as well, going to recitals with my mother, that sort of thing. He was a good friend of my father’s. He's holding my mom's hand, so to speak, so be warned he's a little on the protective side."

"So you think he'd be insulted to know that I killed you off?"

Erica smiled as she held Jonathon's hand, despite all that his statement implied. They were walking along the stone path of the garden, enjoying the array of scents and the warm night air. "It certainly surprised me."

"I put you into a story, and literally wrote you out. I thought I could write you out of my life." He smiled sheepishly as he stopped on the garden path, turning so that he could take both of her hands. Her eyes, though still tired, were open and welcoming again in the dim light. "It didn't work."

"I'm glad—I think."

"I'm rewriting the story. I think I'll have you kidnapped. Peter's questioning his own reality. It would be good for him to battle it out as he searches for you. I've never written a kidnapping into the story line before—not a kidnapping that affects the main character."

"Peter's the main character?"

"Yes."

"And who am I—what's the girl's name?"

"Whitney."

Her head tilted slightly as she thought about it, and he waited patiently for the inevitable. "Are you going to let me read it?"

"I wouldn't think anyone would want to be a part of their own death—kidnapping."

"No, but it must be an incredible thing to be part of a Burstin novel."

"Everyone can read my books when they come out," he reminded her and laughed at the disconcerted look on her face.

Erica released one of his hands, and started walking again as she held onto the other. Their pace was slow, content, as if they were dear old friends just getting reacquainted. "I met your father."

"Really? When?"

The surprise and pleasure in his voice delighted her. It meant he wanted her to meet his father, or at least, he didn't not want her to meet him. "Well, I didn't really meet him in person, but in your second book. I recognized him as the man you said had grey peppered throughout his hair, wise eyes and a penchant for being right. I couldn't put it down. He must be a wonderful man—you've already said as much . . . ."

"He is," the quiet love in his voice rumbled. "It was just the two of us when I was growing up. We had a cabin, away from a small town where I went to school. We fished together when I was through with my homework, and I helped him clean the house, cook."

"What does your father do, in real life?"

"Besides fish?" Jonathon chuckled. "He's a professor. Both my parents were, for awhile. Before that he was a cop, a good cop, then he started teaching people how to be good cops. My mom quit teaching and stayed home with me . . . then dad changed his schedule so his classes were at the same time as mine."

"Jonathon . . ." it was hard to keep the excitement or the uncertainty out of her voice, "if I told you about my father, could you make him come alive for me? Just slip him into one of your books, like you did with your father—"

His look was so startled that she immediately backed off. "I'm sorry. I know—a writer’s imagination is private. I—"

"Erica," he said, turning her to face him. "Tell me about your father."

* * * * *

Lillian stood at her bedroom window and watched as Erica walked the garden with her Jonathon. What would it have been like to watch them with Gordon at her side? She could almost feel her husband’s strong arm at her waist, the warmth of his length against her side.

Would Erica be the beautiful, thoughtful young woman she was today? Gordon had been both handsome and thoughtful, bringing flowers home just because, taking time off for extended vacations with his family, or smaller vacations with just Lillian.

She had loved him … so dearly….

It was good to watch Erica smile and laugh with someone who understood her so well. They walked the garden paths slowly, never seeming to run out of conversation. Dinner had been pleasant. It was hard to miss the easy affection between the two of them, the dialogue and smiles volleying back and forth.

Jealously had reared it's ugly head for Lillian, who had never had that easy affection with her daughter. Some might say that Lillian had never wanted that easy type of relationship with Erica. She couldn't say either way. Nothing had been the same since Gordon….

She let the curtain drop and walked to her bed. The small chest was open, bearing the last of Gordon's things. She never took it out, never wanted to look. Not since she'd tucked the chest away twenty years ago.

The only reason she'd kept it was that someday, she feared, the police would come back and ask the right questions. She feared the day that there would have to be answers.

And this time, the right answers.

She closed the lid on the chest and locked it. Then she carried it into her walk-in closet, and buried it behind a swarm of designer clothes.

Would Erica have been the same if Gordon had lived?

Lillian wanted to think so.


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