Page 1 of You'll Find Out
THESHADOW OFTIME
To Nancy
Chapter 1
Shane Kennedy had been wrong. Dead wrong. He didn’t make mistakes often. In fact, he very rarely made mistakes, and the realization that this morning was not only an error in judgment but also an exercise in frustration made him clench his teeth and jut his jaw against the early November morning air. He prided himself in his ability to think clearly, solve problems, handle any situation,andavoid costly or time-consuming errors. Yet here he was, doing exactly the opposite of what all of his instincts instructed him to do, caught up in the enticing but bitter nostalgia of the past, acting the part of a fool!
As he leaned against the moss-laden trunk of a barren oak tree, he wondered what had possessed him to come here—it wasn’t as if he was welcome. He muttered a silent oath under his breath and watched the scene before him with fascination . . . and contempt. He must have been out of his mind, driving most of the night just to . . . what? he asked himself. To see her again? Talk to her . . . touch her? He snapped his mind closed at the thought with another oath. Damn! He closed his eyes as the cold, familiar sense of betrayal crept silently up his spine, and he hiked the collar of his coat up more closely to his throat as if to ward off the chill of the early winter morning.
Perhaps it was because four lonely years had passed, and time has a way of twisting memories to make them appear more captivating than they actually were. Or perhaps he had just forgotten how mysteriously beautiful she could be. Or, more likely, even in Shane’s own estimation, he had secretly hoped that the years would have begun to take their toll on Mara’s winsome features and that the signs of age would have started to weather the regal loveliness of her face, making him immune to her beauty. But he had been mistaken—and a fool to even believe that the passion she had once inspired would have died within him. It was a false hope on his part, nothing more. Even now, in the cold, misty morning, cloaked in an unflattering black coat, Mara appeared more serenely beautiful than he had remembered. And if age had caught up with her, it was only to add a determination and a maturity that increased the seductive quality of her elegant beauty. The memories that her presence evoked shattered Shane’s resolve.
He had come to the lonely cemetery on impulse, and now he realized the gravity of his mistake. One look at Mara was not enough to satisfy him. His fists balled at his sides as he discovered, to his disgust, that despite the pain of the last four years, he still wanted Mara as desperately as he ever had. The thought made his black eyes spark with contempt. The feeble excuses that had propelled him to the well-manicured cemetery on the hillside were already fading. It was an inexcusable mistake; he should never have come, never have broken into her privacy. But, still, he lingered, unable to take his eyes off of the attractive new widow.
The cold, gray morning was clouded in mist, giving the ceremony an eerie, uneasy quality, and the light dusting of dry snow that covered the ground added to the ethereal feeling that captured Mara. A light breeze tossed the few remaining dry leaves into the air in frozen, swirling circles that spiraled heavenward.
Behind the flimsy protection of the black veil, Mara’s cobalt-blue eyes stared down at the gravesite, unseeing. The usual sparkle that lighted her face was gone, replaced by a serious cloud that made her delicate features more tightly pinched than normal. Her skin was still flawless, and her high cheekbones were as regally sculpted as they ever had been, but there was a determined set to her jaw that stole the usual softness from her face. Unconsciously, she licked her arid lips and stared down at the brass casket with dry eyes. In one hand she clutched a single white rose to her black-draped breast, in the other, she clung firmly to the tiny fist of her dark-eyed daughter.
At the final words from the preacher, Mara dropped the snowy blossom onto the coffin and coaxed her reluctant child to do the same. The mourners began to disperse slowly, with only an occasional hoarse whisper of condolence cast in her direction. She smiled grimly behind the thin, black veil and nodded briefly at each of the sympathizers before making her way back to the black limousine that was idling quietly nearby.
Once inside the luxurious car, Angie looked at her mother in a childish imitation of concern. “Is Daddy gone forever, Mommy?”
“Yes, honey—I’m afraid so,” Mara responded, and placed a comforting kiss on the child’s forehead.
“Good!” Angie snorted.
Mara felt a dry tightness in her throat at the stinging words of her daughter, although the outburst wasn’t totally unexpected. She closed her eyes and in a soft, consoling voice replied, “No, Angie, it’s not good . . . why would you say such a thing?”
“Because it’s true! Daddy don’t like me!” The little girl crossed her chubby arms over her chest in an attitude that dared her mother to argue with her.
“No . . . oh, no . . . that’s not the way it was, honey. Not at all. Daddy loved you very much.”
The child puckered her lips before shooting Mara a knowing look. Mara swallowed with difficulty and bit nervously at her thumbnail. She wondered how she was going to stave off the inevitable argument that was brewing. How could she lie to her own daughter? Although only three years old, Angie had a keen sense of perception—so like her father’s. Once again, Mara tried to reason with the child. “I know that Daddy . . . was a little . . . gruff with you at times, Angie. And, maybe, he was overly grouchy. But honey, you have to remember that Daddy was very, very sick. Sometimes. . . the things that he said, well, he just didn’t mean them. You have to believe that Daddy loved you very much.”
“Why?” Angie demanded, imperiously.
Mara hazarded a quick glance at the chauffeur, whose bland expression told nothing about his thoughts on the difficult conversation between mother and daughter. “Because . . . oh, honey, Daddy’s gone. Can’t you just forget the times that you and he quarreled?”
“No!”
“Look, Angie—” Mara’s voice became a hushed whisper “—there are going to be a lot of people at the house this afternoon. Please promise Mommy that you’ll be good.”
“Who?”
“Who?” Mara echoed, confused for an instant. “Oh, you want to know who will be at the house today?” The impish child nodded, tossing her blond curls. “Let’s see,” Mara began, placing a comforting arm around her wayward daughter’s small shoulders. “I know that Grammie and Aunt Dena will be there. Maybe cousin Sarah and . . .” Mara’s voice trailed on tonelessly while she listed all of the relatives who would attend the intimate gathering of those closest to Peter. She was relieved that she had managed to change the course of the conversation with Angie, and fervently hoped that the little girl wouldn’t bring up the touchy subject of her father for the remainder of the day.
As Mara thought about the afternoon ahead of her, she mentally groaned. It would be trying, at best. The thought of all of Peter’s friends and relatives trying to console her made Mara’s weary mind whirl. Couldn’t they just leave her alone and let her deal with her grief quietly and in solitude? No matter what kind of a marriage she and Peter had shared, being a widow was a new and frightening experience. She needed time alone.
When she thought about widowhood, Mara felt her throat become dry. Although she was relieved that Peter’s suffering was over, she felt guilty at the thought. It all seemed so senseless—the malignancy that had forced him into an early grave. Now, after all of the tears had been shed and the suffering had ended, she wondered uneasily if it had been her fault that the marriage had been foundering. Why was it that the only thing that had held Peter to her in the end was the devastating news of his terminal illness? Peter had been kind to her, at least in the beginning, and she couldn’t forget that kindness, even if in other ways he had failed. She sighed despondently to herself. What was the use of dredging up old, unwanted memories? Poor Peter was gone, and if it hadn’t been for him, what would have happened to her and Angie? Mara looked anxiously at her bright-eyed daughter sitting on the velvet gray upholstery of the long, black car. Angie’s eyelids drooped, and the tangled mass of golden ringlets sprang out discordantly from beneath her tiny black hat. It was a shame to dress such a lively child in black, Mara thought, but after all, this was Peter’s funeral, a time for mourning, and if Peter hadn’t married Mara four years ago, what would she have done? Mara closed her eyes and pushed the nagging question aside. It wouldn’t do to dwell on the past. Not today, not ever. How many times had she given herself that very same advice—always for the same reasons.
The driver eased the sleek ebony car through the twisted road of the graveyard, and the motorcade followed his lead. A long, flexible line of cars wound its way past the cemetery gates and down the hill toward Asheville and the Wilcox Estate that bordered the western North Carolinian city.
If Mara hadn’t been so distracted with her daughter, perhaps she would have noticed the one mourner who stood slightly apart from the crowd. She had been too busy with Angie to realize that the tall man with the brooding black eyes followed her every move. Even now, as the large limousine made its way toward the city, the man waited and watched. His eyes, dark as obsidian, held a quiet flame in them, and although he tried desperately to deny the urges within him, he knew that he would find a way to get close to Mara again. He would see her again—if only for a short while, he vowed to himself. It had been four long, agonizing years, but Peter Wilcox’s untimely death had ended Shane’s tormented vigil. Unfortunate for Wilcox, but quite the opposite for Kennedy, Shane thought grimly. His speculations were ruthless, and he felt a slight twinge of conscience but ignored it. He reminded himself that Mara had it coming; nothing could alter that fact and the quiet anger of betrayal smoldering in his mind.
The burning picture of the suffering widow stayed with him and played dangerous games with his mind. The heavy black coat and gracious veil that Mara had worn couldn’t hide her serene beauty from him. He could still visualize the slender curve of her calf, the bend of her knee, the swell of her breasts, and the perfection of her face. It was an image that had tormented his nights for over four years. He had been patient—a gentleman in all respects—but now the waiting was over. A slight gleam of satisfaction stole across his angled features.
Shane stood watching the procession of cars, mesmerized. The wind, promising still more snow for the Blue Ridge Mountains, ruffled his thick raven hair, but still he stared into the breeze, mindless of the chill, until the last vehicle passed over the crest in the road and was no longer in view. Damning himself for his own impetuous desires, he strode to his car. It would be better to wait, and he knew it, but there was an urgency to his movements. Once inside the silver Audi he turned the ignition key, and the sporty car roared to life. He paused for a moment, his hands poised over the steering wheel, and uttered a curse at his hesitation, which seemed, somehow, to be a sign of weakness. It was a mistake, but to hell with it, he had to see Mara again, face to face, and find out why she had deceived him four years ago. But it was the day of her husband’s funeral, his conscience argued with him—anyone would need a little time to adjust. He ignored the thought, and muttering a low, self-derisive oath, he cranked the wheel of the car to follow the funeral procession.
The limousine carrying Mara and Angie headed up the slight incline toward the gracious Wilcox Manor. Small by genteel southern standards, it was nonetheless impressive and stately. The circular drive was long and guarded by ancient white oak trees. Though the onset of winter had left the giant oaks stripped of their once lush leaves, the tall trees added a royal dignity to the estate.
