He twisted a strand of hair around his finger, his expression taking on a faraway look. I stared at him, unable to imagine how I could've missed it. Had he been that good at hiding or had I really been that blind?
“So, I think the cops will see what I wrote as evidence that either I killed Allen because of how I felt about you, or that the two of us were having some sort of affair. More than that, I don't want them reading the things I wrote about you.” His finger stroked down my cheek.
“I understand,” I said softly. He was right. If the cops read anything about how he wanted me before Allen died, they'd think the same things I thought when I first found out how he'd felt.
“No,” he said. “You don't.” His fingertip traced my bottom lip. “I don't just mean how I felt – how I feel – about you. If it was only that, it'd be different because it would only be me being exposed. The fantasies I used to have about you would have been bad enough...”
Something clicked. “You have new entries.”
He nodded, looking away again, his cheeks suffused with color. “I write down everything. Every moment with you because I never want to forget it.”
I thought about the first time we'd had sex. When he'd gone down on me in the living room. Making love outside. Me taking him in my mouth. The different positions...blood rushed to my face as I remembered how his cock had felt in my ass.
“Hey.” Jasper cupped the side of my face. “Don't worry about it. I'll get rid of it. All of it.”
I shook my head. “We'll figure out a way to keep those files away from the cops, but I don't want you to throw them away.”
His eyebrows went up as I got onto my knees. I leaned forward and brushed my lips against his.
“I believe you said something about fantasies you'd had?” I gave him a wicked smile. “I think I'd like to hear a bit more about those.”
His eyes darkened as his mouth curved into a grin. “Well, there's this one I had involving whipped cream...”
“I think we have some left over from last week.”
Chapter 17
Jasper offered to stay home with me until this was all worked out, but I told him to go back to the clinic. He'd already taken off the day I'd been released and I knew I'd want him there if the DA decided to take this to trial. Home by myself would be a lot easier than going to trial by myself.
I didn't want to think about that though. I knew if I stayed in bed late, that's what would happen. I wouldn't be able to stop thinking, and then I'd start to wallow and I'd be miserable.
When the alarm went off for Jasper to get up, I let myself doze a bit, but as soon as he came out of the bathroom, I forced myself up and into the shower. He was gone by the time I got out, but he'd left a heart drawn in the steam on the mirror. I was still smiling about it while I made myself breakfast.
It was funny, I thought, how I'd known Jasper for nearly a decade and never realized what a romantic he was. Because he'd never brought a lot of girlfriends around, and rarely the same girl twice, I always assumed he preferred to play the field. Yesterday, however, I learned that the real reason was that he'd never been able to find a girl who'd made him forget me, and he'd felt it wasn’t fair to them to be in a relationship with someone whose heart was somewhere else.
Heat swept through me as I remembered the other things we'd talked about yesterday. Talked about and done. The whipped cream had only been the beginning and I had the aches and bruises to prove it. He was much more imaginative than I ever realized.
Once we'd showered and made our way back into the bedroom, I told him that he hadn't needed to share anything with me he wasn't comfortable having me know, but he'd pulled out his laptop and had let me read everything. More than once I'd been moved to tears by the things he'd said, the way he'd seen me. Then there had been the entries where he'd talked about how he was grateful I'd found someone like Allen, how I deserved someone so much better than he was. My heart had broken at the way he saw himself, and I promised I'd do everything in my power to make sure he understood how special and amazing he was.
One way I'd decided to do that was to give Jasper every fantasy he'd had over the years, sexual and non-sexual. It would take a while to get to them all – eight years was a lot of time to fantasize – but we'd gotten a start last night. The whipped cream had been first, but it hadn't been the last. He'd taken me in a couple new positions, and had made me scream so loud that my throat was scratchy this morning.
A couple of his fantasies would have to wait until summer since they involved things like making out on the beach and skinny dipping at midnight, but there were a few that had involved Christmas and New Year's, and that was where I was determined to go next.
First, that meant seeing how much decorating I could handle. Step one to that was going into the attic and taking a look at the boxes up there. It was a full attic, complete with heat and air so it could be used as an extra bedroom. Allen and I hadn't really needed the extra space for anything specific, so we'd used it for storage instead of the smaller crawlspace attic above the garage.
A dusty love-seat still sat against the wall, its fabric worn and faded. It had been the first piece of furniture we'd bought together for Allen's apartment near UCLA, and when he'd moved in here, he'd brought it with him even though his uncle had left all of his furniture to Allen along with the house. We'd come up here more than once to make love on it.
I picked up one of the boxes of decorations and carried it over to the love-seat and sat down. I opened it, bracing myself for the tide of emotion, but when it came, it wasn't as strong as I'd feared.
I pulled out garland, smiling as I remembered the first time Allen and I had tried to wrap it around the hand-rail leading up to the second floor. I still wasn't entirely sure how we'd managed to get it so wrong, but we'd ended up sitting on the stairs, tangled up in garland, laughing so hard that tears had been running down our cheeks. And then we'd had sex right there on the stairs.
I set the garland aside. I could use it.
I reached back into the box and found the wreath we'd hung on the front door of the vineyard office. It was hideous, a gift from May Lockwood after she'd made some comment about our taste in décor. Allen hadn't wanted to offend his mother, but neither one of us had wanted it on the house, so we'd put it at the office and Allen had told his mother that he'd thought it was perfect to greet his clients.
Neither one of us had ever mentioned that we didn't see clients in December, or that we barely went to the office ourselves in the winter either, so no one was really going to see it.
I put that to the other side. There was no way in hell I was keeping that thing now. I was half-tempted to burn it outside for the irony.
The house lights were at the bottom of the box and I put the garland back on top of them. I'd have to ask Jacques for help with those. I wasn't going to attempt to put them up on my own. I'd tried it one year, wanting to surprise Allen, and had fallen off the ladder and broken my arm. I knew Jasper would remember the incident, and be furious if I attempted to hang the lights myself again.
I pushed that box over to the stairs for me to take down when I was done. At least we'd have lights up and garland on the stair railing. It was a start.
I picked up another box and began to go through it. I was pleasantly surprised at how many decorations prompted fond memories, but nothing that made my heart ache badly enough that I couldn't bear to see them. I knew I wouldn't be able to handle the Christmas ornaments or the tree Allen and I had bought together, but at least the rest of the house would be decorated.
I was down to the last item in the last box when I found it.
Tucked inside the mouth of the nutcracker Allen and I had found at a garage sale two years ago was a small piece of paper.
Clue #1: Inside out. Upside down.
I stared at it, unable to believe what I was seeing. I blinked. Closed my eyes, and then opened them again. It was still there. Six words in Allen's handwriting. A clue. We'd always liked pla
ying games. Board games, trivia games...we even liked watching detective shows together to see if we could figure out who the killer was before the detective did. Then, last year, during a conversation I couldn't really remember, Allen had jokingly threatened to hide my Christmas presents and make me solve clues to find them.
And now I couldn't believe that he'd done it. But it didn't make any sense. Allen and I would've found it together the day after Thanksgiving if he'd still been alive. If it had been my Christmas presents he'd wanted to hide, he would've wanted to wait until closer to Christmas to hide the clues so I couldn't find anything early.
Unless this wasn't about that. It hit me hard enough to make me gasp. Had Allen hidden these clues before he'd killed himself, knowing that I'd find them at Christmas and they'd lead me to something he wanted me to have?
One thing was for sure. I wasn't about to let it go. No matter what showed up at the end, even if it was nothing, I owed it to Allen and myself to go through with it.
The first clue was simple enough. I hadn't brought much with me when I'd moved in, but I had brought a couple boxes of childhood keepsakes, including my favorite books. One of which used the two phrases from the note.
I stood and walked to the far back corner where my boxes stood. If only I could remember which one the book was in. I looked at them, trying to decide if Allen would've put the box back on the top of the pile or if he would've assumed I'd go for the top box and put it lower in the pile, just to make things more difficult.
I opened the top box, took a quick peek and then set it aside. That was all of Mitchell's stuff. I had more storage room than he did, so I'd taken his things as well when he'd sold our parents' house.
The second box was the winner. The book was right on top. I opened it and the note was written right on the inside.
Clue #2: Paris 1821.
I frowned. History wasn't one of Allen's hobbies, and we'd never gone to Paris, or even talked about going, so there wasn't any sort of personal connection to the city. What would Paris 1821 mean?
I felt like an idiot when I realized what it was.
Wine.
Of course, it had something to do with wine.
I folded up the first note and put it in my pocket, then headed back downstairs. I went into the wine cellar first, looking at the label of each one until I found it. Under the bottle was another note.
Final Clue: The monkey chased the weasel. 32-15-27-08
A part of me wondered if Allen had been high on some sort of medication when he wrote this last one. Then the answer hit me and laughter bubbled up and out. I shook my head, still laughing as I headed for the stairs.
I pulled on my coat and slipped on a pair of tennis shoes. It wasn't freezing out, but the wind was still cool enough that I was glad for the extra layer, even for the distance between the house and the office. Jacques's car was parked it its usual spot, but he wasn't in the office. That wasn't surprising. He was most likely checking the wine vats like he did every day.
I didn't go looking for him. I'd talk to him about the lights tomorrow. What I wanted was in here and it was more important than the lights at the moment.
Hanging behind Allen's desk was a large picture of a tree. Or, at least, it was supposed to be a tree. It had been a running joke between the two of us. We'd seen the picture at a flea market and had started arguing about whether it was a tree or a bush. For some reason, it had struck us as funny and we'd bought the picture. Allen had insisted it was a maple tree. I'd said it was a mulberry bush. Like the one from the nursery rhyme...about a monkey chasing a weasel.
I took the picture off the wall and there it was, a small safe. I turned the dial left, then right, then each again, stopping at the numbers Allen had written down. When I got to the last one, I took a deep breath, my heart hammering in my chest. With trembling fingers, I pulled it open.
Chapter 18
It wasn't very big, but it didn't need to be to hold what was inside. A small, wrapped box sat on top of an envelope. I took both out and looked at them. I didn't need to see my name written on both, but there it was. One on a small tag on the box, the other on the envelope.
Neither one was typed. The handwriting matched the notes I'd found, but I would've know it anyway. It was Allen's. He'd always made fun of Jasper for his “doctor's scrawl,” but his own had only been decent when he'd concentrated on making it that way.
Part of me wanted to rip into the letter here and now, but I knew that probably wasn't the best idea. I didn't know what the letter said, but I knew I'd want to read it in private. While the office was empty now, I didn't know when Jacques would be coming back, and I didn't want to be in the middle of something emotional when he did.
I put the box and the letter in the pocket of my coat, then headed back up to the house at a regular pace. I forced myself to take off my shoes and put them away, then hung up my coat before I took the gift and the envelope, and went to the couch. I considered taking them upstairs, but a part of me felt weird at the idea of reading something from Allen in the bed where I'd been sleeping with Jasper.
I sat down on the couch and put the little wrapped box on the coffee table. I wanted to open it, but I wanted to read the letter first.
My hands were shaking, making my name jump as I stared at the envelope. I wanted to read it, but I also didn't. The last time I'd read something that was supposed to have been from Allen, it had blown up in my face.
Then again, I had no way of definitely knowing where those other things had come from. I wanted to believe that letter I'd gotten in the mail had been from Allen, but it had been typed, even my name on the front.
The one I held in my hand had Allen's handwriting. It was from him. No doubt about it.
I opened the envelope and unfolded the letter, letting my eyes skim over the paper without actually reading anything at first. I just wanted to make sure that it was all handwritten. No point in getting my hopes up if it wasn't from him. But there it was, scrawled at the bottom. Two words I never thought I'd see in his handwriting again.
Love, Allen
I went back to the top, but I had to close my eyes for a moment, take slow breaths to try to steady my hands. It was going to be hard enough to read without it shaking all over the place.
When I opened my eyes again, the paper was still.
Dear Shae,
I hope that by the time you find this, you'll have grieved enough that you won't hate me for what I'm about to tell you. Is that selfish of me? To wish that you won't hate me? I suppose it is, but it's hardly the only selfish thing I'll have done to you. And now I'm going to do it again because I can't handle the thought of you not knowing the truth.
I'm sick, love. I won't go into details, because I don't want you doing what I know you'd do and looking up everything you can find about the disease. Just know that it would've been horrible and I couldn't die like that. I couldn't make you watch me die like that.
Maybe suicide is the coward's way out. I'd always thought that, but it just goes to show that we never really know how we're going to handle something until it happens. I suppose I should've gone about it a different way, and I'm sorry that I couldn't think of anything else. Not without the insurance companies refusing to pay out. I know my parents are going to be a pain and I don't want to risk you being left with nothing.
Still, I know you must hate me for what I did. How I did it. Even more now that you know I did it on purpose. But please, Shae, don't hate me. I thought it was for the best.
The thing I regret the most is us talking about having kids when I knew that wasn't ever going to happen. I wanted nothing more than to have a family with you, Shae. To grow old with you. Watch our children grow up. I know that will never happen, and it kills me to know it.
But you can have that future. Not with me, but you can still have it. Children. Grandchildren. Someone to spend your life with.
And here comes the next part where I think you're going to hate me.
Jasper.
Yes, he helped me fake my health records for the insurance company, but that's all he did. And he did it because he wants you to be taken care of. He loves you, Shae. He's loved you since we first met. He probably thinks I don't know, but I see it on his face every time he looks at you.
I know you've never thought of him as anything but a friend, but I think the two of you would be good together. He loves you, and I think you could love him too. Even if it's not as anything more than a friend, please take care of Jas. I know he's going to figure out what I did as soon as it happens, and he's going to blame himself. He won't ask for help, not from you. He'll feel like he needs to take care of you, both because he loves you, and because he'll feel guilty.
I love you, Shae. So much. I wish things could be different, but I have hope that you will have a long, happy life with someone who loves you as much as I do. I want that for you. I want you to be happy. To love again.
I can only hope that you can understand what I did and why. And that you can forgive me. That is the one thing that I'm scared of. That you'll hate me. Please don't. Remember the good, love. And I'll be watching out for you.
Love, Allen
I sniffled and wiped at my cheeks as I read the letter again.
And again.
Tears dripped off my chin as I took it all in. This was Allen. My Allen. He really had killed himself, but this letter didn't sound like the other one. I could hear his regret. And then what he'd said about Jasper, how he'd known how Jasper felt about me. And that he wanted me to take care of Jas. That he wanted us to be together.
I leaned forward and set the letter down. I couldn't read it anymore. I would want to read it again, I knew, but not now.
The box was still sitting there, a small, flat thing with my name on it. A part of me didn't want to open it, wanted to save it forever. Almost as if keeping it wrapped and unopened would keep a piece of Allen for me.