The Jewelry Case (31 page)

After switching off the lamp, she tossed and turned until she got out of bed and went to look for the vial of pills. It had been a long time since she had felt the need to take one. She stared at them for a while before shaking one into her palm and dry gulping it.

Too tired to clamber up the stairs again, she stretched out on the sofa and pulled the crocheted afghan over her. It was hot, and the old house had no air conditioning.

The pill seemed to take effect faster than before, and she drifted off into a tangled web of vivid dreams similar to the one she had had the first nights she had spent in the house. But this one was the most real yet.

This time the flowing gown was blood-red satin. Her dark hair was piled atop her head again, a few long curls draped over her naked white shoulders. Rubies gleamed at her ears and throat, ones she recognized from the photograph in the book Shirley had shown her. The gas lights at the front of the stage threw the audience into shadow, but she was keenly aware of hundreds of unseen faces out there, watching her. A
frisson
of new fear crept up her spine and she felt vulnerable, self-conscious, as if she had never been on a stage before.

Then the orchestra began to play. Paisley took a deep breath and opened her mouth to sing, but a series of choking gasps emerged instead. Coughing, she took a staggering step or two toward the front of the stage, reaching out for help. The unseen audience began to mutter and shift in their seats. Their voices rose in a muted roar, until their sound drowned out the music, deafened her. She grabbed her throat, trying to breathe, unable to scream for help.

With difficulty Paisley pried her eyes open. They felt as if they had been glued shut. Although she was certain she was awake, she still couldn't breathe. As her eyes began to sting, she realized she was coughing. In the distance, a hammering sound grew louder and louder. A voice was shouting. "Paisley! Are you in there? Paisley!"

In a daze, she rolled off the couch and crawled toward the door. At least, she hoped so. It was impossible to see which direction she was heading, the air was so thick with smoke; she could only follow her instincts. She heard a crash like a door being kicked in, followed by rapid footsteps and a familiar male voice.

"Paisley! Where are you?"

She tried to call out, but the words cut off in a new bout of coughing. A pair of strong arms wrapped around her, and the next thing she knew, she was being dragged outside and laid on a springy, damp surface. Supine on the grass, she gathered in whooping lungsful of air, inhaling like a thirsty man guzzles water.

"Paisley! Paisley, are you all right?"

Her eyes fluttered open to see Steve crouching over her, the smoke-blackened planes of his cheeks and jaw reflected in some garish light. He looked nothing like the usual remote, neatly dressed neighbor she knew. Awareness filtered into her brain that he was cradling her face in his hands, while the whites of his eyes stood out dramatically against the soot, making him look like an actor in blackface from the 1920s.

"The house!" she exclaimed, suddenly realizing what had happened. She twisted her head to see as men's shouts and the roar of a truck engine penetrated her fog. The local fire department had responded more quickly than the police to her previous call. In the headlights, men in yellow slickers aimed hoses at the freshly painted siding, pouring powerful streams of water all over the house that Ian had so beautifully restored. The blaze appeared to be extinguished, for no flames were visible through the curling white smoke.

"I saw flames coming from the direction of your house and telephoned for help," Steve explained, clutching her tight against his chest. She felt his heart pounding against hers. His soot-streaked T-shirt molded his muscles over a pair of gray sweatpants, and dimly she wondered how he had happened to notice the flames if he were sound asleep in bed. Maybe he was an insomniac, or he had just returned from a night on the town and was preparing for bed when he saw the flames through the trees.

"The firemen were yelling at me to stay out," he muttered against her hair. "But knowing you were in there, I couldn't
….
"

She wrenched herself out of his arms and started back toward the house, ignoring his concerned yelp. A few blocks from the door, a stocky fireman blocked her. "Not yet, lady. You can go in later."

"But my things...."

"Other than some water damage, your stuff should be okay. The fire started in the kitchen, and thanks to your neighbor here, we got the call early." The fireman threw a glance at the house. "Pretty little place. Looks like you'd been fixing it up."

"He's right, it could have been a lot worse," said Steven from behind her, putting a strong hand on her shoulder to pull her back. "But I know how much that house meant to you, Paisley."

She didn't respond. Her heart was beating too fast, and her thoughts were running wild. "What do you think caused it?" she asked the fireman, trying to sound calmer than she felt.

"Could be almost anything, ma'am. You a smoker? No? How about a pot left on the stove?" The fireman shrugged when she shook her head. "Might be bad wiring. Happens a lot with these old houses. We'll let you know after the investigation."

"Investigation?" She winced as Steve's grip tightened on her shoulder. "Why should that be necessary?” he asked. “It’s obvious that the contractor messed up the electrical wires
. Cr
ossed them or something. Paisley, you should consider suing McMurtry for faulty work. I bet he’s not even licensed."

"Maybe it was the wiring, and maybe it was something else," said the fireman, moving toward the fire truck. The emergency was over, and no doubt a soft bed awaited him at the fire department. "We'll find out soon enough." He turned back, and his eyes ran over Paisley's face sympathetically. "Want us to place a call to an ambulance, ma'am? You sound a bit hoarse. Might want to get checked for smoke inhalation."

The fireman’s words reminded her of that moment of blind panic on the couch when she could not breathe, and she put a hand to her throat in her habitual gesture. "I think I'm fine. Thank goodness Steve got me out before.... That he got me out quickly."

"I'll take you over to the E.R.," Steve said, frowning. "That guy’s right, Paisley, you should be looked at."

Paisley stepped out from his embrace, puzzled. Before tonight, he had always seemed polite, but remote. The fire had changed him. Even if he had saved her, though, he had no right to be making decisions for her. "I'll take myself to a hospital if I need to, Steve. But I don't. The smoke must have just started to penetrate the living room when you arrived."

"It's up to you, ma'am," the fireman said, and strode off to help the others coil up the hoses.

Paisley turned to Steve, belatedly realizing that she hadn't sounded very grateful. "I guess I should thank you for saving my life."

"I don't know if I can take credit for that." His teeth shone white against his soot-darkened skin as the headlights of the backing-up fire truck swept over them both. "The fire department was pretty prompt."

"I mean it. Just think, if you hadn't…." Her knees gave way as the full import of what had happened struck her, and Steve caught her neatly in his arms. This time she was grateful for the support. She was more shaken than she had realized.

"Look," he said into her ear. "You're exhausted, probably in shock. You can't stay in your house tonight. It's going to smell pretty smoky for a few days. You're welcome to stay at my place while you figure out what to do next. I have a comfortable guest bedroom. After that, if you decide that you've had enough of River Bend, we'll all understand. This summer has hardly provided the peaceful convalescence you must have been hoping for."

He was right, she thought. It would be demoralizing to have to start fixing up the house again from scratch. The fireman had minimized the losses, but there would surely be water damage and smoke damage. She doubted the place was insured. And even with her recent income from giving music lessons, her cash reserves were zero. The logical thing was to cut her losses and move on.

She considered all this while Steve waited patiently to hear her decision. But something made her shake her head.

I'll wait and see before deciding anything. Maybe I can air the place out, wash the curtains and the bedding, and repaint. That won't cost much. And the fireman said he didn't think there was much real damage."

Steve shrugged. "Your call. What about staying at my place? My offer still stands. You must be exhausted."

She shook her head. The cool night air had reinvigorated her. "He said the upstairs wasn't touched by the fire. I'll just open the windows and let the fresh breezes through."

His face still showed lines of strain under the soot. "You are a stubborn minx, aren't you? At least come over and have breakfast with Kevin and me in the morning. One thing is certain: you won't be able to use your kitchen for a while."

She felt some of her tension drain away. At least she was not alone: with the support of helpful neighbors and friends, she could get through anything.

"Thank you," she said, smiling at him warmly.

#

When everyone had finally left, and grey streaks appeared in the eastern sky, Paisley held a hand towel over her nose to block the smell of smoke and walked through the house to determine whether it was worth salvaging. Surprisingly, when she flicked the wall switch, the lights turned on. Apparently the wiring was all right, at least in this part of the structure

After checking the main floor, she decided that despite the blackened walls and water-drenched furniture the house seemed intact. She'd ask Ian to take a look around later. He'd know.

Miraculously, Esther's extensive record collection appeared to have escaped damage. The fire appeared to have created more smoke than heat, at least in the parlor.

The kitchen, however, was another story. Black tongues of soot licked up the walls, all the way to the ceiling, and the range was melted into deformity. Had she accidentally left something on the stove after all? The little white pills had made her groggy last night; maybe she had forgotten. She checked the melted dials but couldn't tell. The damage was too complete.

Finally the overpowering odor of smoke drove her back to the living room, where she threw open the windows and gratefully felt cool, sweet air rush in. She was already mentally adding up the cost of repairs.

The ancient stove needed to be replaced anyway. The orange striped Herculon couch stank of smoke, but then, she had never liked it much. Maybe this was an opportunity to do as that tired old clich
é
said, Paisley told herself: take life's lemons and turn them into lemonade, or lemon meringue pie, or lemon
something
. She could finally get rid of the ugly old pieces and decorate the house the way she liked.

With the income from the singing lessons, she could afford it now. The antique store next to Shirley's bookstore had some interesting stuff, and vintage furniture was usually cheap. A new couch, coffee-table, and appliances....

In spite of the fresh air pouring through the open window, the thick atmosphere overcame her again, and she went outside. In the first light of morning, she could see the tracks of the fire trucks had left the front yard a gashed, muddy wreck. The full extent of the damage would be evident when it grew brighter.

She was leaning against the porch railing, inhaling deeply clean air, when a familiar green pickup pulled up. Like a flitting shadow against the dim light, a tall figure rushed up the long walkway toward her.

"Oh, Ian!" Relief coursed through her as he crushed her in his long arms, hurting her ribs which were still sore from when Steve had dragged her outside. She didn't care. It was nice that everyone seemed to be so concerned about her these days, she thought, burying her face in his chest. Lucky, popular Paisley. Lucky, alive Paisley.

"You're okay! Thank God you're okay!" His hard chin dug painfully into the top of her head as he clutched her furiously against him. Something was different about his embrace than Steve's, something she could not identify. She didn't bother to try. She was tired of thinking. There would be plenty of time for that later.

"How did you know?" she asked, her words muffled against his shirt.

His grip did not slacken. "A friend saw fire trucks heading away from your house. When you didn't answer my call, I threw on my clothes and came right over."

By now everyone in town must know about the fire, she thought, closing her eyes to better enjoy the secure feeling of his arms around her. The grapevine worked perfectly, even at four o'clock in the morning.

Then he moved back, his face growing accusing. "Why didn't you call me right away? I thought we were
…
friends."

"In all the commotion, it didn’t occur to me. I'm so sorry, Ian! All your beautiful work on the house, gone up in...." She started to giggle. Of all the clich
é
s she had thought of so far, this one was the most literal.

"It's not funny," he said grimly, looking down at her. "Are you hysterical?"

"I'm not hysterical, and please let go. You're hurting me."