Wild Orchids Read online

  I closed the door and tiptoed away. Sometimes, between his grumpiness and having to feed him every two hours, I forgot that he was Ford Newcombe, the writer whose books had captured America’s heart.

  And, if I were honest, there was ego in my feeding him and keeping things quiet so he could write. I knew he hadn’t written anything since his wife had died. So if he was writing now, maybe I’d had something to do with removing the block. Maybe plain ol’ Jackie Maxwell had done something that had enabled this man to give yet more happiness to the millions of people who’d read his beautiful books.

  By the time I was to meet Russell on Wednesday, I was feeling pretty good. I was getting some good food into Ford and I was doing what he’d hired me to do: help him write.

  On the other hand, I didn’t think it would hurt anything if when Ford did emerge from his den he was told that I was being courted by a divinely handsome man. So that’s why I invited Toodles and Noble to meet Russell.

  But the meeting was a disaster. Well, actually, half a disaster.

  Part of me had been angry at the attitude Toodles and Noble had taken with Russell, but another part had been pleased by it. Did they see Ford and me as a couple so strongly that they couldn’t bear to see another man near me? Is that why they’d been so rude?

  Maybe I’d overdone it when, in front of them, I’d thrown my arms around Russell and kissed him with so much enthusiasm, but I’d really wanted to show them that I belonged to no one.

  Just as I knew they would—okay, hoped they would—immediately after Russell left, Noble and Toodles ran straight up to Ford’s office. I went to the kitchen and busied myself chopping vegetables for dinner. When Ford came down, I wanted to look busy and unconcerned. I entertained myself by rehearsing acting surprised at why he was so upset just because I was seeing another man.

  But the clock ticked and Ford didn’t come downstairs. In fact, the three of them stayed upstairs. What now? I thought. Do I have to haul three trays upstairs?

  I got enough veggies chopped for fourteen people (Noble was cutting down by halves; next week he was going to try to go down to seven) and put them in the refrigerator. I went to the foot of the stairs and looked up. No sounds were coming from upstairs.

  I fiddled with the dragon for a few minutes, watching the flame shoot out of its mouth, and wondered if anyone had shown Toodles the little creature. He’d probably really like it. Maybe I should call him. Or maybe I should go upstairs to Ford’s office and ask if they were hungry.

  But in the next second pain shot through my head and I collapsed on the rug at the foot of the stairs. Suddenly, I was inside Rebecca Cutshaw’s head. I don’t know how I knew whose mind I was inside, but I knew. I saw the interior of a house that I knew was hers, and I felt her boozy, unclear thoughts.

  But most of all, I felt her rage. She drank to deaden the anger inside her. I couldn’t tell exactly what she was angry about, but her rage was such that I felt as though I’d been tied to a stake and flames were eating me up.

  I’ve never understood alcoholism, but in that moment I did. If I were being burned alive as Rebecca was and alcohol calmed the flames, I’d drink anything I could.

  I was only in her head for seconds, which was almost more than I could bear, but I saw what she wanted to do. For some reason, the town of Cole Creek seemed to be the object of her rage, and she truly believed that the only way to get rid of the anger permanently was to burn it down. The vision inside her mind was so realistic that I knew she’d been planning it for a long time. And, worse, she didn’t care if she died in the flames. She just felt as though she must remove Cole Creek from the face of the earth. And there was something I couldn’t understand: She thought that there were people who could not get away from the flames—and people, like firemen, who could not get to the fire to put it out.

  When I came to from the vision, I staggered over to the hall chair, and moments later Ford was there—as he always was when I desperately needed him.

  After carrying me into the living room, he asked me to tell him about my vision. I was so upset that I hardly noticed the other people in the room. It seemed to be just Ford and me.

  Somewhere in my telling, Noble got involved, then Toodles and Tessa, and they started telling me that Russell Dunne didn’t exist and that I’d been talking to a ghost. Only they didn’t say he was a ghost. They said he was a devil. No, sorry. The devil. The one who’s nearly as powerful as God. That devil.

  It was all so ridiculous. I mean, if they wanted to break Russell and me up, couldn’t they have come up with something less dramatic? They could have said he was gay. Or that he had a criminal record— and wouldn’t Ford’s family be in a position to know that? But no, they had to go for the gold and tell me I was seeing the devil.

  Right. Sure. Why in the world would someone so important waste his time on a secretary-slash-cook-slash-amateur photographer? What was in it for the devil? Didn’t he have his hands full with what was going on out in the world?

  The whole thing was too absurd for me to take, so I left. I don’t think I meant to leave forever, but I needed some time to get away from anyone named Newcombe—and that included Tessa and her devil-hating-Cole Creek story.

  On the other hand, I’m sure that in the back of my mind was my deep desire to know. For weeks now Ford and I had danced around the idea that I was involved in what had happened to that woman years ago. But we had no solid proof of my involvement. By silent agreement, Ford and I had pretty much dropped the original reason for our coming to Cole Creek. And why not? He was writing again, and heaven knew I was happy since I now had my own photography studio. So why pursue something that seemed to alienate us from the residents?

  The only problem seemed to be this Russell Dunne thing. And the fifty mile limit, of course. How absurd was that?

  When I grabbed the car keys, I didn’t consciously think of it, but I think I was determined to show them all that what Tessa had said was something the kid had made up. When I got into the car, I pushed the button to start counting the miles. I drove south in Ford’s fast little Bimmer, so agitated that I straightened out curves. Twice I had to make myself slow down before I met an oncoming car and caused a wreck. If I got myself killed, no doubt they’d say the devil did it.

  I watched the mile counter turn forty-eight, then forty-nine. As it started to roll over to fifty, I smiled. Idiots! I thought. How could they make up a story like that? How could—?

  When the counter hit fifty, the car engine stopped. No red light on the gas gauge. No warnings of any kind on the screen in that expensive little car. Just dead. And it wouldn’t start again no matter how many times I turned the key.

  Coincidence, I told myself as I got out of the car. I was glad I’d had the sense to grab my cell phone along with the car keys, but the phone wouldn’t work. The ID panel said I had a signal, but when I called a number I got no sound. I couldn’t call the police or a tow service. I went through every phone number in my directory but got only silence.

  Finally, I called Ford’s cell number and he answered. He and Noble got there faster than I had, which meant that they’d straightened out all the curves.

  When I saw Ford I refrained from running to him and clinging. Yes, of course the fact that the car had died at exactly fifty miles was just a coincidence, but at the same time I was feeling decidedly unsafe.

  Ford seemed to understand what I was feeling because he was quiet so I could think all the way back to the house. But then maybe he wanted to think, too.

  When we got back, Ford pulled into the driveway, turned off the engine, and we sat there for a few moments in the truck cab.

  Then, suddenly, Ford put a big hand on the back of my head and kissed me hard. “Whatever happens, Jackie Maxwell,” he said, “remember that I’m on your side.” With that, he got out of the truck and went into the house.

  I sat in the truck and felt myself sigh—then I looked around to make sure no one had heard me. What is wrong with us women tha