Distant Obsession

By M.W. Davis and Ciara Gold

After years struggling to succeed as an artist, Lilah Randal accomplishes here dream, only to return from her first sold out exhibition to find her husband, a US Senator, and his mistress in bed, murdered. With no proof, only suspicious, the police give up pursuing her for the murders, but not the news hounds, nor the discomforting phone calls or late night attempted intrusions into her home.

Reluctantly, Lilah stalls her career, assumes a different identify and begins fresh, hiding in a small town far away from the attention of DC. Her days are filled with new vigor as the serenity of the Cherokee Valley surrounding Watauga Lake feeds her creative muse under a fake alias. Yet her nights remain hollow, like her marriage to the senator, until she becomes obsessed by the allure of a stranger that glides by her cabin in his sailboat. Both his male form and solemn expression bleed into every painting, every midnight fantasy, until her new dream becomes reality. Lilah learns her future will remain corrupted by the past until she solves the secret behind her husband’s murder and explores her attraction to the mysterious sailor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Books
• Release date: Aug 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781771551151

Book preview

Prologue

I did it! I proved him wrong. Lilah Randall couldn’t contain her excitement.

Excuse me?

The driver’s expression in the rear view mirror was enough to remind Lilah she’d had enough to drink for the moment. Sorry, I was talking to myself.

Joy filled her again with thoughts of success.

Sold! Every last one of them.

It had taken two years to capture two dozen masterpieces on cloth. She had worried over each color, each stroke of camel hair, until the canvas transformed from mere white to a reflection of herself, as if it were a child.

During the show, she experienced a strange confusion of emotions: jubilation at her final triumph, yet in the background, around the edges of her elation, a macabre sadness flavored the night. At the gallery in Chicago, while her creations, one by one, walked away in the arms of another, a faint emptiness drenched her excitement. No, not emptiness. A chill crept across her neck, like when the last rays of sun had been replaced by twilight.

No, it’s all good. No tears. No looking back anymore, only forward.

Tonight epitomized all she worked to achieve this past year under the very nose of her lord and master. To be freed from having her hopes dashed each time she sought praise, encouragement; she felt more than simple relief. The spark from her success had ignited a new path of possibilities. Like the small canary that finally solved the puzzle to its enslavement, Lilah was now empowered to fly away.

For the next four blocks Lilah strained to peer through the fog of wine and blanket of near pitch black along the poorly lit street leading to her dwelling on the corner of Amber Street. Oh, stop. Here. Let me out here.

The driver pulled to the curb while she fumbled for the clasp on the seatbelt, yanked a few bills from her purse, and paid the fee. Thanks.

The lanky man’s eyes widened when he saw the large tip, and he smiled. Call ole George anytime you want a lift. You need help getting to your apartment?

Lilah swayed slightly, clutched the half empty wine bottle against her chest, and fluttered one hand in the air. No. I’m fine. You go on.

He frowned but did as requested and drove off, leaving her alone.

The shadowed buildings, the invisible things she could hear but not see made Lilah doubt the decision to deny the driver’s offer and brave the last few yards to her doorstep on her own.

The unusually empty street in front of the Georgetown high-rise apartment provided the perfect backdrop for a Stephen King movie. The spotty streetlights illuminating the walkway and suspicious hedges banked along both sides of the entryway provided a perfect hiding place. One glance at the departing tail lights of the cab left Lilah feeling the eerie isolation of the moment.

Relax. There hasn’t been a murder here in years.

The attempt to bolster her confidence fell flat as a three-day-old soda. She studied the sparkling outline of her favorite constellation, Draco, the same celestial body she learned to admire from her mother. Lilah flushed the stale air from her lungs and marched beneath the footprint of the dragon’s tail. An umbrella of limbs from the urban planted sweet gum, scarlet oak, and zelkova foliage in the side courtyard danced in the mild breeze, the sound masking the distant street noises. She jerked sideways as the star-shaped seedpods from the gum trees bombarded the canopy above the bricked stairway.

Laughter bubbled from her throat. God, Lilah. Get a grip.

This is your night. Don’t let a few sounds spook you from enjoying your elation.

The purse teetered precariously beneath her arms as she balanced the wine bottle in one hand and searched for keys to the apartment with the other. Lilah berated herself for not having them ready when she left the taxi, but her preoccupation was understandable.

No longer would Ben demean her talent, not with proof that others appreciated her artistic flair. She giggled, floating on a euphoric pillow of triumph. Not even Ben’s adulterous behavior could dampen her mood.

The loose change in her purse jingled from her fumbling attempts to retrieve her apartment key. Finally, she withdrew the prize and lifted her head, almost losing her balance on the second step to the building.

As she reached for the computerized keypad to the main entrance, the door exploded outward and crashed against the side of the building before slamming closed. The collision broke her concentration. She twirled like a top along the railing.

The bottle dropped, crashed against the stairway, and splattered wine and glass shards across the cement steps as if they’d been fired from a shotgun. My shoes!

A man dashed past and ran down the sidewalk.

Damn. You could at least say ‘I’m sorry!’

The rudeness of some folks.

Before regaining her breath, the thin silhouette jumped into a faded gray van. The starter motor screeched twice then the engine engaged, spitting a stream of blue smoke from the dieseling engine. The decade old vehicle swirled to miss the oncoming bus before disappearing down Amber Street.

Lilah surveyed the abuse caused by the jerk. Her Prada designer heels bore the brunt of the man’s crude behavior. She’d paid a fortune for the pink satin, jewel-trimmed fashion statement. Ruined.

She straightened and stole another glance in the direction the man had fled. No sense worrying over the damage now. The creep was long gone. Broken glass littered the path, a mess she’d clean during the light of day. A deep breath helped defuse the sudden anger. The minor setback would not dampen her spirits, not tonight. Regrouping, she punched in the lock code for the main entrance door.

The ride up to their suite provided a chance to rehearse the speech she planned for Ben. A bit tipsy, she leaned against the cool granite encasing the elevator outside their suite and pictured her husband’s surprise at her newfound fame. Her stomach dropped when her ride lurched to a stop.

Lilah reached to insert the key in the lock, but the door swung wide, already unlocked.

He’s never done that before.

Ben was rigid when it came to security. Was he even home? He hadn’t answered the phone when she called earlier to share her success. Not that he would care, but she loved the idea of proving him wrong. He always had a subtle way of making her feel insecure about her talent.

A strong floral aroma lingered in the air. She rolled her eyes at the telling evidence of her husband’s perfidy.

You bastard. You swore, never again.

Lilah sauntered into the kitchen and threw her purse onto the counter. Grabbing hold of the marble edging, she rocked back on her wine covered heels. Damn you, Ben.

Nothing should’ve ruined tonight’s happiness, but no matter how hard she tried to overlook his indiscretions.

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook off the sudden anger.

Find your happy place, Lilah. Don’t let him screw up your big night. Besides, she’d gone to see a lawyer last week with the intent to file divorce papers. Now that the art show had been a huge success and her career was finally on its way, she felt more comfortable telling her no-good husband to take a hike. That he still had the power to hurt her spoke poorly of her confused feelings for the man. After all, the first years had been blissful, the kind of marriage all women long for yet rarely enjoy.

What happened to us?

Pulling away from the counter, she noted the blinking phone.

So much for calling ahead.

Another bottle of wine sat opened near the sink. She lifted the container. Merlot, and an expensive brand at that. At least your current floozy has good taste. With a bitter laugh, she poured a glass for herself, ignored the droplet crawling down her cheek, and lifted it high. To selling every one of my paintings tonight.

The semi-sweet fermented drink slid past her lips and made a smooth descent to her stomach. She closed her eyes to enjoy the blissful flavor. After swallowing, Lilah opened them again and frowned.

A dining room table chair lay on its side. She approached slowly and righted the furniture.

Her gaze fell upon the living area. CDs, DVDs, and books were scattered about the floor. Ben had a temper and was known for tossing things about when he didn’t get his way, but she’d never seen him this destructive. What had set him off?

The darkened hallway drew her forward. The reality of what lay ahead whispered, Caution, you know what’s there, you’ve seen it before.

Yet curiosity stiffened her resolve. This time, the signs were different. The fine hairs on her arm stood erect, but still the bedroom beckoned, Come, tell the truth, how you’ve felt all these years. She knew he couldn’t care less; his callus behavior had conveyed a lack of any commitment to vows or honor.

I don’t care. It’s my turn. I refuse to hold back like a frightened little rabbit anymore.

A light from the office beamed into the hallway. She tripped over a woman’s shoe and gave it a cursory glance while continuing to advance toward her destination. The room held another scene of chaotic damage flavored with a revolting scent; something hinting of human carnage.

The large, maple desk that usually epitomized the definition of neat and orderly looked as if an earthquake had struck. Loose papers and files were strewn across the lacquered surface and scattered about the carpeted floor. Drawers stood open and the file cabinet broken into, their contents strung out in haphazard formation. Heart racing with undefined fear, she gently touched the mouse attached to her husband’s computer. The screen popped alive to display numerous opened files. The DVD tray stuck out as if someone recently burned a copy.

Had Ben packed in a hurry and left? He’d threatened to leave before, but…

She ran from the room and down the hall. Their bedroom door was slightly ajar. Taking a deep breath, she pushed it wide.

The scream centered from the depths of her diaphragm and bounced off the walls. She fell to her knees and lost the wine she just consumed. Spent, she staggered back to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed 9-1-1.

State your emergency.

One

The shutter snapped off three consecutive frames, capturing the subject in vivid detail: shades, black skintight trunks, no shirt, no protective lotion to degrade his swimmer’s tan. The body, a perfect sculpture like that of Michelangelo’s David, captured her artist’s imagination and enhanced her desire to put on canvas the magnificence of man.

Lilah Johnson stepped away from her Cannon EOS 7D digital camera and stared along Bears Creek to the mouth entering the main leg of Watauga Lake. The scenic vistas of Lunar Cove from the wall of glass fed her muse the imagery that bled onto each canvas. The painted morning skies, the moon beams that flickered and marched toward the dam each night, and the blanket of colored foliage touched a chord deep within. With nature’s stimulus to her mind’s eye, the quaint cabin she inherited from her mother became a haven, one that placed her on the fringes of society, but kept her safe from the paparazzi.

The strong scent of oil and turpentine saturated her small studio. On an easel facing the window, her newest painting sat half done. She’d captured the rich glowing sunset in expressive detail. The composition lacked a focal point, a fault she planned to rectify after this evening’s photo session. She put her eye to the camera’s viewer and sighted on the private cove.

To her left at the far end of the lake, a vintage sailboat trimmed in teak bobbed against its moorings. Its captain, a stranger with admittedly stunning male features escaped from the ship’s cabin and scratched his left buttock, unaware he was the center of someone’s attention. She repositioned the camera with its tripod and waited. Finally, the craft departed, angled right, and motored forty yards from her porch.

No, not yet.

The dayboat advanced toward her lookout post, proudly displaying its graceful lines. With the mainsail still furled, she had a clear view of the man at the helm, his bronzed skin gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat.

Lilah adjusted her telescopic lens and snapped two shots of his sculpted chest. He reached for a dark blue pullover shirt. She grunted, wishing the cool autumn breeze hadn’t forced him to don the covering. Powerful muscles strained with each rotation of the wench as the main lifted with the halyard. Clambering onto the bow, he tugged on the jib rope, and raised the second sail. He scurried for the tiller and brought the boat off wind. The sail billowed, filling with air, and the boat gently leaned to port. After setting course, he settled into place alongside the tiller, looking for all the world like a man with no worries.

The ripples dancing along the reflective surface of the cove spread creating a V-shaped wake that licked the tight curves of the vessel’s belly. She focused the lens, spotting the name of the boat. The Jenny May. A woman’s name. A girlfriend, perhaps? His wife? A spurt of jealousy attacked so swiftly she inhaled a sharp breath.

Why on earth would I be jealous of a complete stranger?

She’d never had such a reaction before while spying on the sailor, until now. Lilah had been painting this particular man since spotting him three weeks ago. And in that time, her brushes had lovingly captured his form on one painting after another. In her creative mind, the man and boat had become one, an extension of the need she felt within.

Isolated for the past year with nothing but the pigments encased in wrinkled tubes and the drudgery of work at the library to keep her company, she’d become socially barren, the nearest neighbor half a mile away. The voice in her conscious thoughts declared her self-entombment a positive achievement. Indeed, maintaining a low profile allowed Lilah to horde her treasured privacy. Yet in that secret garden, the guardian of her spirit whispered, There’s more out there: the possibility of love, passion, and the pleasure only a man’s touch can bring.

She blinked twice and drove the distant echo back inside the fortress. Until she was ready, it was better to maintain distance, an obsession with a complete stranger from afar. Lonely—yes, but safe.

With that last thought, she turned her attention once more to her current fascination.

The hull skimmed the liquid body beneath its weight. After a sharp starboard tack, he vanished behind the distant foliage of Pelican Point, continuing on his journey down the main branch of the lake.

She inserted the memory card from her camera into the computer and projected the recent replicas of him and his sweetheart, the Jenny May, against the back wall. She retrieved her palette, several brushes, took a deep breath, and returned to the only source of relief from her chaotically messy world.

Two

A distant memory rolled back, carrying smells, sights, and sounds from his favorite Saturday event—the monthly trip to Mary’s Bakery. Through chores around the thirty-acre dairy farm, whatever pittance earned could be used at his discretion, one of the few choices he was permitted beneath the umbrella of a demanding father, a bullying brother, and a mother who clearly demonstrated her preference for the first born of the family.

Seven miles from his destination at the fairgrounds southwest of Allston, Reece Edwards pulled into the graveled lot next to the refurbished caboose, with the giant half-eaten donut piercing the roof.

Still here, after all these years.

The original owner had to be long gone. Hell, she was sixty plus when he was a kid. The place definitely needed some TLC, a little touch up here and there to cover the peeling chips of rich burgundy color, yet a stream of locals still revolved through the double doors.

Reece departed his car, stepped forward, and paused a few feet from the entry. He inhaled the scent of fresh dough, of coffee, toasting sesame seeds, and homemade pie. His stomach took note and demanded attention.

All right. I’m going to feed ya. Just wait a…

Wow.

A woman clad in tight blue jeans, a red floral silky blouse, and bright pink sneakers swept past and burst through the door ahead of him, trailing a whiff of perfume. If she’d offered the chance, he’d have gladly opened the door, if just for