Hawke

“Of course. Your nurse-uniform fetish. God, how stupid of me.”

“What do you think is wrong with me, Vicky? Brain tumor?”

“I think you’re fine, darling. I think you’ve had a panic attack.”

“Panic? Over what? I’ve never been happier.”

“I don’t know. You’re not really my patient, remember?”

“We’ll fix that.”

“You said you had a bad dream, Alex. Can you remember anything about it?”

“No. It’s a very bad dream.”

“Tell me about it.”

“May I have a sip of your water? Thank you. Well. It’s always the same at the begi

“It’s all right, Alex. Tell me.”

“Can we just make love again instead? I’ll tell you first thing tomorrow.”

“No.”

“All right, all right. It’s frightfully mundane. I’m locked in a small room. A closet of some kind and—why am I talking about this? It’s only a stupid childish dream.”

“Dreams are important because they offer clues to our deepest feelings.”

“You sound just like a bad textbook, darling. ‘Our deepest feelings.’ Well, in my case this shouldn’t take long because deep down I’m a very shallow person.”

“Tell me the goddamn dream, darling.”

“Yes. Anyway, in my dream, I’m locked inside a small closet. It’s insufferably hot and foul-smelling. There’s a small hole in the door, and I can see into the next room.”

“What’s in the other room?”

“Nothing. But there’s a hole in its ceiling. And I know something bad is coming down through that hole. That’s the feeling I have. A bad thing is coming.”

“Is it always the same bad thing?”

“Yes. It’s—it’s a spider. It wants to kill me. It wants to kill everybody.”

“And you’re powerless to stop it?”

“Um, yes. I am.”

“Because of the locked door?”

“Because I’m so little. And the door. Yes, it’s locked. I’m hiding so the spider won’t find me.”

“How old are you in the dream?”

“I don’t know. Six or seven maybe.”

“What do you do? Where are your parents? Can’t they help you?”

“I don’t have any bloody parents. I never had any! I was raised by my grandfather!”

“Alex, calm down. It’s all right.”

“Sorry. There’s no one in the closet but me. I’m all alone. I’ve always been alone. I want to scream. But I can’t because then the spider will hear me and find me. After a while, I don’t care. I want to open my mouth and scream and scream but nothing comes out.”

“Alex, you’re shaking again. Are you all right?”

“No. I’m not all right. My dreams, my life. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference. I always seem to be somewhere on the road between Heaven and Hell, and I never know which way I’m headed.”

“Oh, Alex.”

“You know—I really don’t want to talk about this, Doc. Drop it, all right? I’m thirty-seven fucking years old. I managed, somehow, to make it this far through my life without a lot of psychobabbling doctors digging into my past, and I’m not bloody well about to start digging into it now.”

“Why are you so angry?”

“This is my life you’re poking around in. I’m a private person.”

“I’m just trying to help. You came to me, remember?”

“Right. My mistake. Sorry. I don’t need any bloody help. I’m sorry I disturbed you. I’ll go back to my bed now, thank you very much. Good night.”

“Alex, you need to talk to someone. Maybe not me, but someone.”

The door slammed and he was gone.

“Good night, Alex,” Vicky said, and turned out the light.

She lay staring into the darkness for about ten minutes, arranging and rearranging her pillows. There was no possible way she could go back to sleep. She’d been in bed for the best part of forty-eight hours. She felt great. Mild concussion? Obvious misdiagnosis. Minor concussion, that was this doctor’s second opinion.

She flipped on the light, got up, and pulled on a pair of khaki shorts. Then the white T-shirt with the big black hawk that the captain had given her when she’d first come aboard. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She’d completely forgotten about the bandages around her head.

Pulling open a drawer, she grabbed the lovely Hermиs scarf that Alex had found for her on New Bond Street in London. Dolphins and whales. She wrapped it around her head and went off in search of the nearest stairwell.

She hadn’t been on the yacht long, but she already knew where to find Ambrose. She knew his habits well enough to know that right now, he was sitting out on deck under the stars, probably at the business end of a vintage cognac. It was Ambrose, after all, who’d introduced her to Alex in London. There’d been a di

And, besides, she had a new children’s book out called The Whirl-o-Drome that had won all sorts of English literary prizes and was all the rage in London. She’d found herself invited to countless di

Alex was the guest of honor that evening, and she’d been seated next to him. He was devastatingly good-looking, and she was sure this seating had been carefully arranged. When the beautiful man proceeded to ignore her all through the first course, she’d turned once more to the charming older man on her left, Ambrose Congreve, and asked if he knew why the rude guest on her right was ignoring her. He said he happened to be the man’s closest friend and would be happy to assist.

He scribbled something on the back of his engraved place card, and handed it to Vicky. It was folded and said “Alex Hawke” on the outside. She tapped the rude man on his shoulder and handed it to him. He read it, looked pale, and then said to Vicky, “Excuse me, I’m a dreadful bore. But I would be twice honored if you would do me the singular honor of the next dance.”

Ambrose would never tell her what he’d written on the place card. But when she’d turned and asked the gorgeous man if “twice honored” meant two dances, well, that was the begi

In the event, the three of them spent the next two weeks in a merry whirlwind of pub crawls, parties, and weekend trips to lovely old country houses. She and Alex spent the last weekend alone at his rambling home, Hawke’s Lair, deep in the Cotswolds. They had, of course, fallen deeply in love by then. And Ambrose had become a frequent companion as well.

So she knew Ambrose’s nocturnal habits. Now, he’d most likely be up on the topmost deck in the open stern lounge. It was his favorite haunt and he’d nicknamed it the Fantail Club. He’d be smoking his pipe and having his Hine cognac, which is exactly what she wanted at the moment.

She emerged into the cool night air. The stars were so bright she wished she’d brought sunglasses. Seated at the rounded banquette in the curvature of the stern were two familiar silhouettes. Their heads were bowed together, deep in conversation, and neither saw or heard her barefoot approach.

She bent and kissed the nearly bare pate.

“Ah, the very lovely Doctor Victoria Sweet!” Ambrose said, standing up. “Up for a midnight stroll round the decks, no doubt? The sharp sea air? Smashing idea!”

“I couldn’t sleep a wink,” Vicky said. “Hello, Ambrose. Hello, Stoke.”

“Evenin’, Doc,” Stoke said. “Sit down, girl. We’ve got us a fine night goin’ up here. Hell, you sit up here long enough, you bound to see meteors, comets, sputniks, and at least three or four shooting stars. Leastways Ambrose sees ’em, but then he’s on his fourth star and his fifth brandy.”

“I don’t want to sit,” Vicky said. “I feel lucky to be alive. I want to have some fun. Go somewhere and dance by the light of the moon. Isn’t there someplace where a girl could get you two to dance and buy me a seriously good rum drink?”