B0092XNA2Q EBOK (25 page)

I stepped out and down the first few stairs, and heard her slowly tear the paper. I spoke over my shoulder. “I signed it for you.” She opened to the title page and brushed her fingers across the name, “Bella.” I held on to the railing, afraid to look behind me. “You were right about writers.”

Her voice was a whisper. “How’s that?”

“They die. Their words don’t.”

I descended four flights of stairs, my knees weak. I wanted to run but didn’t know where to go so I walked outside and threw up in
the bushes. Once that wave had passed, I threw up again. Empty, I wiped my face on my sleeve, shoved my hands in my pockets, and meandered through the gardens—trying not to think about the transaction occurring inside. Those thoughts took me through the pasture, then the vineyard.

It was a long, long walk.

After midnight, I returned to my room, and lay on my bed, my journal on my chest. My heart pounding. The window was open and the breeze rolled the curtains. Around three a.m, I turned out the light but didn’t sleep. Every now and then, the boards above me creaked, suggesting she was still awake. Still reading. Throughout the night, I heard laughter and muffled sobs. For the last hour, she hadn’t made a sound.

Somewhere after five a.m., the stairs creaked. I turned to find her standing in the doorway, clutching the book to her chest. A tissue in her hand. Slowly, she approached the bed, walked around it, and sat on the edge. Her eyes were red and face puffy. Several moments passed before she spoke. When she finally did, she didn’t use words.

She lay down next to me, placed her arm around my waist, and kissed me, her tears running down my cheek.

In my previous life, I learned something. I remember seeing it painted on the faces of the kids in the hospital. It is this: All hearts have but one request. One simple, unspoken, undeniable need. One undeniable fear.

To be known.

You can stamp it out. Kill it. Box it up and hem it in. Numb it and close the door. Bury it and nail it shut. Encase it in stone. But eventually, the needs of the heart will tear the door off the hinges, unearth it, and crack the stone. No prison ever built could house it. Those of us who think we can are lying to ourselves. And those next to us.

Hope never dies.

She moved closer, her back to my chest. Moments later, she was asleep, and I was not.

I
t was nearly noon when I opened my eyes. Her face sat inches from mine and she was looking at me. My hands were folded across my chest. One of hers lay across mine. Her fingers intertwined with mine—two young vines trained by the gardener. She pulled them to her chest, and whispered, “Hi.”

“Hi.”

She turned, pulled on my arm, and pressed her back to my chest, squeezing my arm around her. More spooning. “I can’t believe it’s you. I mean, you’re really you.”

I chuckled. “It’s me all right.”

She spoke over her shoulder. “There are some—mostly those who believe Elvis and Marilyn are shacked up in the Austrian Alps—who think you’re still alive. Never died.”

“Those same people are probably starting to say the same thing about you.”

She shrugged. “No wonder you knew so much about door number three.”

“Yeah, well…”

She was almost giddy. Like the revelation had put us on an even playing field. Partners in crime. “I can’t believe it’s really you.” Another squeeze. “I mean, it’s really you. Peter Wyett right here in my bed. Sleeping under my roof.”

“You already said that.”

“Look at me—my palms are sweating. So this is what it’s like when you meet somebody famous?”

“Not sure I’m all that famous anymore.”

One hand on her hip. “Whatever happened to that last book? The one the whole world was going crazy over? Your ‘lost masterpiece.’ ”

I shook my head. “Don’t really know.”

“You wrote it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you lose it?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, can’t you just rewrite it?”

I shook my head.

“Why not?”

“The reason I wrote it—was taken from me. And, then or now, I couldn’t—can’t—understand why.”

She smiled. “Guess I’m not the only one with a secret.”

“Guess not.”

She pressed her back against me. The smell of her hair under my nose. She smiled. “Can I tell you something? An honest confession.”

“Better save that for Steady.”

“I’m serious. This is important.”

“Sure.”

“And you don’t mind if I’m brutally honest with you?”

“No.”

“This is the first time I’ve ever been to bed with a man and woke up clothed.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yes.” She was smiling.

“And you don’t mind if I’m brutally honest with you?”

“No.”

“This is the first time I’ve ever slept with a woman.”

A chuckle. “Seems like I remember you saying something about that.” She squeezed my arm beneath hers. “Well, there’s more to it. I mean, it gets better.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She sat up, facing me, and crossed her legs. Hands in her lap. She searched for the words. “Okay, another honest admission. I was wrong about something.” She shook her head. “You’re not compensating.”

“What?”

“Your truck. I told you that you owned a big hooked-up truck ’cause you were compensating. Trying to be someone you weren’t. ’Cause you didn’t make a big enough splash the first time around. But now I think you drive it ’cause you need it.”

“Thank you.”

A shrug. “I, on the other hand, own four Porsches for reasons we won’t go into.”

Her self-reflection was confusing me. I sat wondering where this was going. “Okay.”

She was all over the map. Her fingers tapped the cover. Changing direction on a dime. “Beautiful. Just… how you do it?”

“People say the same thing about you.”

“Yeah, but this, I couldn’t begin to—Wouldn’t know where to—What I do is acting. It’s all pretend. Totally scripted. A shield between them and me, but this—this is real. It’s perfect. Every word is—honest.” A shrug. “Listen to me. I’m all thumbs. Just like my fans, I get in the presence of somebody great and fall to pieces.” She turned, clutching my book. “Thank you. I treasure it.”

“I’m… glad you, well, it’s been a long time.”

She wrapped her arms tighter. “Your secret’s safe.” A pause. The beginnings of a smile. “Did you know your Facebook fan page has over four hundred thousand fans?”

“Didn’t know that I had a Facebook page.”

“Well, you do.”

“You have one?”

A nod.

“How many fans do you have?”

“You mean before the ship caught fire in the gulf?”

“Yes.”

“A little over twenty million.”

It was almost evening. Darkness had fallen. Her giddiness reminded me of grammar school show-and-tell. The questions I thought would follow, the how-comes and what-happeneds I was prepared to dodge, did not.

Her dealings with me reminded me of the kid who forever shook the presents under the tree, even hefting their weight and holding them up to the light but never tearing at the paper or pulling back the cardboard because she’d been let down too many times—the gift never measuring up to her hopes. Unsure of the contents, and afraid of one more disappointment, she stood content to just pick at the edges of my wrapping. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. When she finally dove beneath the surface, she did so tenderly. “You didn’t like the world you were living in so you checked out, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What was wrong with it?”

“The pain outweighed the joy.”

She wrapped her arms tighter about my book. “Given your gift, some might accuse you of being rather selfish.”

I nodded. “I didn’t used to be.”

“What if the world needs your gift?”

“I’m still wrestling with that.”

“Your honesty is disarming.”

“I’m aiming for honest. That’s all.”

“I know the world looks at me and thinks, ‘all together,’ but what if I’m not? I’m on display for all the world to see and show them this perfect image, so what… so a bunch of people can make money off their wanting to be like me. But those girls… they shouldn’t want to be me. I want to tell them all that the guys… once they’ve had you, all they want to do is brag that they did. They want to know they conquered me. But so what? What have they gained? Certainly not my heart. And more importantly, what, or what else, have they lost? Have I lost? Is there a limit? I mean, to how much we can lose?” Finally, she got to the question she really wanted to ask. Her pupil filled the corner of her eye. “Do you think your checking out pissed off God?”

“You should ask Steady that question.”

“I’m not asking Steady. I’m asking you.”

The truth was tough to come by. I whispered, “I don’t think I pissed Him off as much as I broke His heart.”

“How do you know?”

“ ’Cause it took me a long time to stop crying.” I stared out the window, finally speaking softly. “Stories order the pieces. They begin as seismic shifts, then they surface, becoming ripples that lap upon foreign shores. They are the echoes that resonate in this world and the next.”

She stood next to me at the window, studying the same stars. My book still clutched to her chest. “You think God reads this?”

A tear climbed down my face. “I hope so.” I stared at her. “I wrote it for one of His angels.”

She tapped the book. “I want to say something to you but when it comes to things that matter, I’m a lot better when someone else writes the words.” An honest smile. “I want you to know—” She squeezed the book tighter, then shook her head and offered her hand.

I took it.

She walked me the length of the house to a room I’d not seen. She pushed open two tall doors leading into a cavernous ballroom
of sorts. The ceilings must have been twenty feet high. Four crystal chandeliers the size of her Mini Cooper. Fireplace large enough to sleep in. Floor to ceiling windows with floor to ceiling curtains. Black-and-white marble floor. Each stone was eighteen inches square. A long Steinway sat angled in a far corner. She opened a door, clicked several buttons lighting what looked like a sound system built for NASA, and then began slowly walking the perimeter of the room. The music began playing from more surround speakers than I could count. She eyed the speakers.

“ ‘The Waltz of the Flowers.’ ” She walked into a memory and twirled once in the corner. She spoke without looking at me. “The countess had been a dancer before the war. She loved to dance.” She walked to a curtain and pulled it around her leg much like a matador. “I used to hide and watch the highest of society turn and twirl out here. I’d imagine myself getting asked by the most handsome of eligible men who would lead me to the floor and then every few minutes another man would tap my partner on the shoulder. By night’s end, I’d danced with them all.”

She turned to the piano. “The countess taught me. Said I was ‘a natural.’ Told me I could play Vienna. Melbourne.” She twirled in the middle. “Some of my fondest memories took place here.” The music ended. Another piece began. She pointed again. “Pachelbel.” She walked to the piano, sat, and played along. Midway through, she stopped and set her fingers in her lap. She surveyed the room. “My memories of this room are like”—a glance at me—“reading your story—taking half a deep breath. Always breathing in. Never breathing out.”

She walked to the middle of the room, studying the floor and dancing with a partner who was not there. She raised her arms and danced beautifully, resting her hands on the shoulders of a memory. She spoke as she danced. “It was the first time the countess
had ever invited me to a social gathering. Often people would play, there would be dancing, maybe someone would sing… the wine sparkled, the women sparkled, men laughed, a grand evening.” Another twirl. Another turn. “I was almost fifteen. She had paid to have a dress made that fit me just…” She trailed off. “She did my hair. My father sat back in amazement as she transformed me before his eyes. She had invited all of Langeais. Said she wanted to make sure I had ‘options.’ ” Arms extended, another twirl. “I danced with every boy. Went to school with many of them but few had noticed me until that night. It was, without a doubt, the best night of my life. My own fairy tale…” She trailed off. “I woke the next morning with blisters on my heel. I returned to school and found that six boys were vying for my attention, which I freely gave. I’d never known such…” The dance slowed. “For a few weeks, I lived in an enchanted place. I was so happy. Of the six, I liked one more than the rest and to my great pleasure, he had promised that he liked me.” A change in the music. “Mozart.” Her tone changed again. The memory both fond and growing cold. “We went on walks, ate ice cream, dinner in town, cappuccinos after school. I fell so hard, so fast, so… We made it all the way to May… and I finally… gave in.” The dance stopped. Her voice turned cold. She crossed her arms, and stared at the floor. Cold and alone. “My father had warned me. Begged me. Tried to—” She shook her head. “He, the boy, led me into the caves. I willingly followed. We were—exploring.” Her tone dropped lower. “When he was finished, he left without so much as a word.” She stared up, tears falling down. “May fifth, 1992.” She walked to a window and stared into the night. “At school the next day, word had spread. All eyes were on me. I learned I’d been the subject of a wager. A wager placed that night of the dance—here in this room. While I thought they were fighting over me, they were placing bets. Each boy put in some amount of money, which the winner ‘won’ as soon as he—” She didn’t finish the sentence. “My ‘conqueror’ was quite proud of himself. I was told he bought himself a new watch.”