The Rosaries (Crossroads Series) (10 page)

She got home and crossed the shady yard, hurrying up the path to the porch. She went inside and made some tea to sooth her nerves, then went up the stairs and fired up her laptop. Somehow, knowing that Sister Justine was only a few keyboard strokes away made her feel safe, so she recounted all that had happened that morning and the night before, and then hit the send button. She hoped Sister Justine wasn’t too far from her computer. While she waited for the good sister’s reply she went back downstairs to see if the water was boiling. She poured some in a cup over a tea bag and waited for it to steep. She was still a little shaken and wondered how long it would take Sister Justine to check her inbox. At that precise moment, her cell phone rang from inside the purse she had accidentally left on the kitchen counter upon entering and she jumped from her chair, but recomposed herself quickly before answering.

“Hello, this is
Lakeisha
Jackson.”

“Sister
Lakeisha
, this is Sister Justine.”

Lakeisha
felt relief spread through every cell of her body. “I am blessed, Sister. I assume you got my message.”

“I did. There is obviously no time to waste. The signs are coming in closer.”

Lakeisha
nodded automatically. “I know. I have been wondering what I need to do now.”

“You are not paying attention, Sister. It seems to me the guidance is quite clear.”

“With all due respect, Sister Justine, I don’t understand. I am guided to go to
London
, but where in
London
, and why?”

“Sister, you appear to be thinking that your intellect has to be kept informed of all strategic plans, when you know perfectly well that not knowing is sometimes best.”

Lakeisha
listened carefully, and Sister Justine continued. “You mustn’t ask of your purpose in the unfolding of the prophecy; you only need to humbly go where you are needed, with no questions asked.”

“But who needs me in
London
? How can I protect someone whose identity I’m not privy of?”

“You are asking me questions I have no answer for, Sister. It will all be revealed to you in due time. Some of those truths are not for me to know, you understand. I shall wire funds to you immediately.”

“I understand, Sister, and as always you are the wise one. I will pay closer attention to the signs that are sent my way, and will try to adhere to the guidance without wondering about the validity of the path I am led to follow.”

“Very well, Sister
Lakeisha
. If anything important happens, please include it in your daily report.”

“I will. Please pray for me, Sister Justine.”

“You are blessed, Sister
Lakeisha
. Your role in this great design is one of the puzzle pieces that will complete a great vision.”

“I am blessed. Thank you, Sister. I will be in touch.”

Lakeisha
terminated the call and went to pull the tea bag out from the cup. The bag had broken, and the tea leaves had settled on the bottom of the cup. The tea was warm and soothing and worked like a balm on her heightened senses. After taking the last sip she noticed the leaves
had formed a strange shape on the bottom, something that slightly resembled the Roman number two – two identical vertical lines side by side, encased between two horizontal lines. She looked at the shape for a second and then rinsed the cup and placed it in the dishwasher.

Today, she planned on packing some of Catherine
Bouvier’s
things, just to help the family a little, so she headed in the direction of the stairs. Her thoughts were on the prophecy, and although she knew that all that was lining up was part of a divine plan, she couldn’t help feeling a little apprehensive about the days ahead. For a second, she thought she saw something moving in the drawing room beside the staircase, but when she focused her attention in that direction, everything appeared still and untouched. She wondered if the spirit of Catherine
Bouvier
was still in the house, and felt instantly compelled to say a prayer for the old lady. Catherine never found peace while alive – hopefully God would have pity on her tortured soul.

Catherine
Bouvier
looked around the room searching for a sense of familiarity. Her memories were fading fast, and although she knew she was in her own house, the place felt foreign by now, and she knew that she was close to crossing over. Upon passing, she had seen an old man; he was tall and dressed in a smart black suit, and he had a red carnation in his lapel. His extravagant attire included a Fedora hat which he pulled off his head in sign of respect when she walked through the door. His hair was gray and his skin the tone of strong mocha, but what mesmerized Catherine most was his ice-melting smile. She noticed that he limped slightly, and used a cane to move around. Strangely enough, it wasn’t the first time she and this man crossed paths – even as her memory of earthly events was fading fast, she remembered seeing him browsing tables at Hidden Treasures the day that she bought the rosary for her daughter. His unusually elegant attire caught her eye, that day, but she never thought she would meet him again.

Natalie was going to London, he told her, but there was a higher purpose to her trip -- a divine one, entirely different than what Catherine believed while she was still alive. He also informed Catherine that there was one final thing for her to do before crossing over completely, and in due time she would find out the details. As he waited for her to fulfill her final task, he leaned against a wall and lit a pipe. “I’m in no hurry” he told Catherine “after all time is but a human invention.”

Ryan Wheeler sat in his office and pinched the bridge of his nose in the fleeting hope to erase the bone-crunching fatigue he felt. He was up late several nights in a row, trying to figure ways to delay the unavoidable, but felt that trouble was catching up with him faster than he could run. The bank called several times already and he had instructed his secretary, Jill, to tell everyone he was out on business. He had to come up with a solution and he couldn’t afford any delays. Natalie could be the name of the solution, but she was playing hard to get. Especially now that Catherine
Bouvier
was gone, Ryan felt that his instinct was on the right track. Natalie was certainly going to inherit the old lady’s estate, as there were no other descendants in the family tree, and a merger between the Wheelers and the Sanders could make the difference between life and death.

He heard this morning that Catherine
Bouvier’s
funeral was scheduled for Saturday afternoon at two o’clock, and he felt that it was the perfect time to get through to Natalie. The poor girl was going to be vulnerable and not quite as guarded – a golden opportunity for Ryan to work his magic on her. He jotted the time and date on his calendar to ensure that other commitments wouldn’t get in the way, then had his secretary look up the number of a florist in
Carolina
Beach
and personally ordered two dozen white roses to be delivered to Natalie Sanders.

The flower shop attendant asked him what he wished to write on the note to go with the flowers, and Ryan thought for a minute. Words were very important at this juncture, and he had to pick each of them with precision and wit. He finally came up with the perfect note – “Natalie, Aunt Catherine is forever alive in the hearts of her friends. I know she will always be proud to be alive in yours. Your friend always, Ryan.”

It sounded good -- affectionate but not invasive. He had a feeling that Natalie Sanders was not a woman that could be pushed around easily, and Ryan had to play his cards right. Someone like her would accept a friend but would be weary of a romantic, eager lover. He would start with friendship; the rest would follow in time.

Belinda Allen left the shop early today, not feeling too well and fearing that she, too, was a victim of that nasty spring virus everyone talked about. Her head was pounding and her
stomach was disturbed, and for the past hour she had constant chills that even the warm air of a southern afternoon in May could not push away. Business was pretty slow anyway; with the spring recital at the church, most residents had gone to attend the show, and the majority of tourists had taken advantage of the amazing weather to enjoy a day at the beach. She decided to stop by the drugstore on the way home to see if the pharmacist, Mr. Lewis, could suggest anything to kill the symptoms, and she got home with a bag of medicated saline drops, Advil and some new miracle cure for the flu that some of the other afflicted residents had sworn by.

She looked at her watch before taking the miracle medicine and saw that it was nearly dinner time – not that she could eat anything, with her stomach in knots as it was. She made a sour face as she sipped the vile red liquid which was supposed to taste like cherry but was closer in flavor to rotten plums, and she changed into her flannel pajamas in spite of the fact that the thermostat in the hallway indicated the temperature in the house as being seventy-eight degrees. Belinda wasn’t sure whether the medicine she took was indeed miraculous, but she knew that it hit her faster and harder than a two-by-four. She couldn’t keep her eyelids from closing, and after fighting a very short battle with her fuzzy brain, she lie down in bed and fell asleep. She never heard the phone ring, and slept right through the sirens of the police vehicles that passed right in front of her house. Had she not been drugged and unconscious, Belinda would know, by now, that someone broke into her shop.

Natalie finally got out of bed after sleeping nearly all day. She had woken up several times but lacked the strength to truly get moving, and lay there watching mindless TV, wasting a good day she could have used to paint by the shore. She stood up and stretched, and then went to shower and dress, although the day was officially almost over. After that, she made coffee and decided to call her mother to find out about funeral arrangements.

Of course everything was already in place, and Natalie could have sworn on a Bible that her mother was not even going to call her to inform her of any updates, had she not called herself. A memorial service was scheduled for Saturday at two in the afternoon, and Aunt Catherine was going to be privately buried in the
Bouvier
family plot with only family attending. Natalie asked if Aunt Catherine had left any specific instructions regarding funeral arrangements,
but her mother blew her off, as she always did. Of course Aunt Catherine’s memorial service was going to be a social affair – her mother would see to it.

She thought of calling Tom, Aunt Catherine’s friend in London, but a quick calculation told her that it was night time in England, so she made a mental note to call the next day, as soon as she got up.

She went to her studio, trying to decide whether she felt like painting or just lounge around with Billy the cat. She was experiencing a “painter’s block” and her mind drew an absolute blank as she stood in front of the white canvas. Rather than getting upset over the lack of inspiration, she mindlessly scanned through the paintings she had collected from Aunt Catherine’s house. One of them represented an old man of color. He was wearing a suit and walked with a cane along an unpaved path at the edge of a swamp, probably near the outskirts of
New Orleans
. Natalie only visited Louisiana once, but she doubted she could ever forget the feel of the place. It was an artist’s paradise, especially the area around Jackson Square in the French Quarter, where local painters showcased their talents to tourists in constant hope of making a sale. She remembered walking down streets that resembled the rues of Paris and the times when, sitting by the shore of the Mississippi River and watching tourists board a freshly painted red and white steamboat, she entertained the thought of possibly moving there.

She lined all the paintings against the wall and studied them one at a time – all were exquisite and conveyed a talent that was criminal to hide. She decided to ask Tom if he could display some of them at his gallery and proceeded to inspect the frames – most of them would need to be replaced. She had some extra frames in her studio, so she carefully removed the one around the painting of the old man, and was surprised to see a folded piece of paper fall on her foot. She picked it up and gently opened it – it was a handwritten note from Aunt Catherine.

The gentleman I portrayed is not a figment of my imagination…or maybe he is, but I think I saw him in a store, one day, and felt compelled to paint him.

Natalie smiled, and suddenly felt sad. She really didn’t know Aunt Catherine, and she regretted not having more time with her, now that she knew they shared a common passion. She was going to try and find Aunt Catherine’s daughter, regardless of how daunting the task was going to be.

“Oh my God, Belinda! You scared me to death. Why didn’t you answer the phone?”

Belinda opened her eyes and tried to adjust her focus – her head still felt fuzzy from the medicine she had taken earlier. She saw her husband sitting on the edge of the bed and noticed that he wore an expression etched with deep worry. She sat up and rubbed her eyes with her fingertips. “I took some cold medicine and it must have knocked me out. What’s going on?”