Moondance (28 page)

Nothing.

Her heart pounding, she inspected the living room, its shadowed corners, behind the wood stove, into each alcove. She turned on the lights and armed herself with a brass candlestick from her bookshelf
Mrs. White with the candlestick in the living room
, she thought, and walked into the kitchen, looking in the pantry, opening the cupboards below. In her bedroom, she looked in the closet, then under the bed. Nothing.

She retraced her steps to the living room and looked outside as if she might catch him running from the house. Her fingers twitched and she smoothed her hair behind her ears with one hand as she clutched
the candlestick with the other. Then she faced the window, scanning the
watery image behind her, alert to the smallest movement. All was still, except her own face which was startled and open. She watched the moon as it emerged from behind the clouds, its face a
doorway to so many memories. Childhood. Kevin and Tori. Things forgotten. Things lost.

She hunched over the window ledge and cried, tears that she thought
had already been spent, her hands covering her face. She thought about Daniel, who never really wanted her, about George, who only wanted to control her, and then about Kevin and Tori who changed her life by one devastating act. She thought about Celia, traveling through Africa, in love and unreachable, and Sophie, settling into the pungent heat of New Orleans, reuniting with an anonymous friend. She thought of a father and brother she had never known, and she thought about Vince and his fleeting presence in her life. She thought about Phyllis sleeping alone in a newly empty house, and then herself, standing in the quiet. She thought about Albert, and how he had appeared to her, his hands warm, and his eyes crinkling.
You’re stronger than you think, wee one
.

“I’m not so sure about that,” she whispered.

Her heart ached, a bittersweet longing, but for what she did not know, and she thought about Him, no longer a stranger on the street, his face smiling, his arms open to her at the airport, but closer now and frightening, standing behind her in her own living room. She cried harder when she thought about how just a few minutes ago, she had sought him out with a weapon in her hands, as if he was a common criminal.

If he wasn’t that, what was he?

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she whispered.
You know
, came the answer, raising the hairs on her arms.

“Show me.”
Show yourself
. Though she couldn’t see him, she could feel him close. She smelled the sweet powder scent rising from his hair, and from his breath, wanting.
An invitation
.

“What do you want from me?” she whispered.

When you find him, you’ll know
. Sophie’s voice.
When you want him, you’ll ask
.

Princess wound around her ankles, and Althea stood up straight, breathing deeply, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She removed the screen in the window so that she could lean out. Wisps of clouds passed over the moon’s face. Her soul mate was out there somewhere, wasn’t he? He was so strong, that she had created an image of him to come to her, in dreams, in hallucinations, in sleep. He was here to show her he existed, that he was waiting for her.

“First I have to ask,” she said softly. “Right? First I have to ask.” As she said this, the moon smiled at her. As she leaned out the window, her heart opened, connecting her with the moon, on a tenuous, shimmering thread.

And then, with a shaky voice and an open heart, Althea Brecht asked something of the universe, and at her words, the moon grew, expanding as if it was an enormous canvas waiting for the colors of her newest creation.

For a moment in time, anything felt possible.

After she said the words, she projected out, willing him to her, wherever he was, then imagining his body close, his arms around her waist, his lips on her shoulder, sensuously moving up to her neck. She pictured him strong, holding her and the more she strained to conjure his image, the more fragmented he became.

She tried again, with all her will, leaning out the window, opening her arms the way he did at the airport, imagining them making love, his body moving over her, losing herself in him, waking up entwined.

“I am ready for you now,” she said, her eyes squeezed tightly, her hands in fists. “You’re what I want. Isn’t this what you wanted me to do?” The wind whipped through the trees, silent. Minutes passed. The first drops of rain glistened on her face like fresh tears. Outside, the air had cooled, and the wind was gathering strength. She lowered her eyes because the moon was no longer an expansive, all-encompassing canvas, it was small and grey, muted behind thick clouds. The moment felt hollow.

She fell to her knees and sobbed, her shoulders shuddering. Her cries escalated into a wail, her face up against the sky. She let her tears flow freely with her pain into the crevices of her heart. For the first time, she coaxed its folds open, gently, steadily, until her chest was full of everything she had ever felt, everything she had tried not to feel, and as she realized the pain was too great, she tried pulling back, but the feelings grew within her, a mounting force, falling downstream, until she could do nothing else but surrender, allowing her heart to break completely.

chapter 44

SOPHIE EMERGED FROM THE chill of the cathedral’s air conditioning into the moist wall of the New Orleans summer. She squinted as her eyes re-adjusted to the light, walking across the square until she found a small patch of grass. Sitting, she placed the scarf-wrapped package she carried close, just touching her knee. No arthritis today.

As she settled in, she glanced at the tourists wandering in and out of the St. Louis Cathedral, where she had spent most of the afternoon in meditation. Inside, Sophie had immersed herself in its warm gold hues and ornamented ceilings, and in her secret heart reveled in the irony she created by being here. She enjoyed the physical opulence of this church, its architecture, richness, its sheer magnificence, while rejecting entirely the symbols represented in its windows and polished wood. Quietly, she breathed, the hours slipping by, actively expanding her own direct connection with what others called God.

Now she sat outside of the cathedral looking in, with a view of a gleaming Andrew Jackson, his sword held high, his horse rising up on its hind legs, ready to do battle. From the outside, the cathedral’s bright white exterior and sharply pointed spires appeared black under the early evening sun.

Earlier in the day, she had walked the French Quarter like a tourist, eating beignets sprinkled with powdered sugar, enjoying the street performers, the tarot card readers, the voodoo museums and of course, the jazz, which echoed into the streets at every turn. New Orleans jazz, the start of it all, made for dancing, first as the celebration of freedom from slavery. Later, evolving into a series of soloists performing for a still audience, and branching out into many more forms after that. Timeless.

She had taken the streetcar to the Garden District and walked through its lush gardens and sprawling trees, past the grand old mansions, winking and whispering to her as she passed, offering up a promise of their secrets, should she choose to take the time to listen.

Sophie was glad she had an opportunity to come here again, to enjoy the city’s raw sensuality. Though she hadn’t been here for over thirty years, New Orleans had been important in her life for a time. During their time here, Sophie had convinced Albert to reconcile with his mother. They had spent six months here, exploring the city, visiting Preservation Hall just two years after it first opened. Albert had re-discovered his love of jazz here and Sophie had learned a great deal.

As the sun set, Sophie sat on the grass and settled into her meditation, the New Orleans heat encasing her like a damp cocoon. Even though she had been outside only a few minutes, her face was flushed and shining, the perspiration collecting at her hairline and the bridge of her nose. She ignored the feeling and imagined the moisture transforming into a cool bath and within a few minutes, her body felt fresh and dry.

As she had so many times before, she rose up outside of her body. Meditation was a normal state to her now. Each time she inhaled the thick air, she went higher, gaining greater perspective and calm as she straddled two worlds.

What she asked for was so small, when you thought about it. The earth was so small. Yet within the universe itself existed unlimited power, unlimited energy.

For those who had the guts to harness it.

Sophie floated and soared, delighting in the beauty of the sky, the sprawl of New Orleans beneath her, her own body just out
of her sight. She breathed, thinking about her desire, what she knew, what she had learned, imagining Althea and the magnificent future that was about to unfold for her, and the role that Sophie would play. Thirty minutes passed like three, and the sun glowed ginger.

It was time.

Sophie returned to her body like a feather swaying in the wind just before it touched ground. She grasped her bag, and the small scarf-wrapped package, holding it over her heart, and used her other hand to balance as she stood up. Her knees burned only slightly. Incredible, considering she had stopped taking her arthritis medication weeks ago.

With a long, relaxed stride, Sophie walked across the courtyard, descending the graceful steps into the street, glancing back at the dramatic silhouette of America’s oldest cathedral.

She turned her attention toward the street and raised her hand, the sinking sun sleepy, close to full blink.

chapter 45

ALTHEA WOKE UP SPRAWLED on her living room floor with the early morning sun in her eyes. Her back was stiff, and her eyes were swollen from crying. She remembered the night before, and wished that she didn’t. She wanted to go to bed, and she knew that she didn’t have that luxury today, because this morning, she returned to work at White Light. A White Light without Vince.

Princess, who had been curled up at the foot of Althea’s bed in the
next room, sprung to life, meowing and careening against her as she got
up off the floor, teetered, and stumbled toward the kitchen. As she fed Princess, anxiety and an intense hunger washed over her. Princess crunched the dry food, as though it was her first and last meal.

• • •

ALTHEA SQUINTED THROUGH THE window of the GO Train at the blurred images rushing past. Knowing the stops by heart, she dozed off. Two stations later, she was roused by a sharp pressure in her chest.

A fair, freckled brunette in a navy blue pantsuit sat in the seat across from her, and as the woman settled in, Althea was riveted, a disturbing sexual arousal spreading between her legs, aching and hot. The feeling shocked and overwhelmed her. It was abnormal somehow,
extreme. Not the way she’d experience physical attraction for someone.

Mystified, Althea stared at the woman whose eyes were closed, her dry, burgundy lips forming a thin line. The arousal within Althea grew, and it was the strangest sensation, physical urgency fused with the headiness of carnal memory
not originating from but flowing into her
as if Althea was connected to the woman by a network of filaments fired with emotional impressions.
Not just lust. Fear. Longing. Dread. And something else
.

The feelings intensified. Now, it was uncomfortable for Althea to sit, difficult to breathe. Her throat closed. Her hand flew to her neck.
No, Althea thought. This isn’t really happening
.

She struggled, shaking, willing the feelings out of her body, desper-ately clutching at the grounding images of the passing landscape: trees, brick houses with back decks and small back yards, laundry drying in the wind, an old barn with mechanical parts, hidden from street wanderers and on display for morning commuters.

Dread. Desire
. She couldn’t shake it. The feelings lodged in her heart like an unwelcome virus, spirals of shame and obsession.
What if we’re caught
. The words came at her like the puff of hot oven air. She felt it on her right side, the thought clearly comng from the woman in the blue suit, and suddenly she knew. The woman had just spent the first night in a new lover’s bed.
A lover, who was also a good friend of her husband’s
.

The woman’s mascara-smudged eyes were closed, her face a neutral mask. Althea stared, paralyzed, until a young man sat beside her. The filaments extending from the woman shifted their attention. In the young man’s presence, she felt butterflies.

Wanting to be free from the woman, she discreetly observed the young man, her chest feeling fluid and warm, uncertain, excited, nervous, anticipatory, all stirred together. He was bookish, with a long thin nose, a scruff of a goatee and an earring. His legs were splayed out into the aisle, with a knapsack at his feet. He held his cell phone to his right ear. He listened, pushed some buttons on the phone, and listened again.
Her voice
. Althea couldn’t hear the words, but she felt them. He was listening to a girl’s voice, to a message she had left him.
New love
.

The boy ended his phone call and sat, his cheek against the rough seat, looking out. As he rested, a warmth spread throughout her chest. She felt as if she was connected to him, on an emotional level, no, more than that — on a cellular level. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced. She could feel every cell inside him, bursting with energy, with the love of the girl whose voice he craved, each cell mapping itself to hers like a magnet. His feelings held her in suspension.