Born of Illusion (9 page)

I give the man behind the glass my dime. He tears a ticket off the roll and hands it to me.

“I thought you were never going to go in,” a familiar voice says from behind me.

I whirl around to find Cole standing close, very close, behind me. “You startled me!” My eyes narrow. Did he know I was following him? He must. He had to backtrack to get to the theater. My cheeks flame. What would he say?

“I’m sorry.” He pays for his ticket and then turns to me. His herringbone overcoat sits well on his broad shoulders, and a Homburg hat is slightly tilted on his head, lending a rakish air to his dignified features. “Do you mind if I accompany you?”

I’ve never shared this part of my life with anyone, but then again, I don’t think Cole knows that Houdini is my father, so it wouldn’t be like sharing. His neck reddens under his collar as he awaits my answer.
He’s afraid I’ll say no,
I think in surprise. “That would be nice,” I say, and then curse myself for sounding so prim.

He holds the door open for me and we go inside. The theater itself is lovely, though a little worse for wear. The red carpeting is worn in spots, and several lights in the lobby chandelier are missing. I can tell by the decor that it used to be a proper playhouse and has been converted into a movie theater. Usually, I enjoy going to the movies, but today, the combination of seeing Houdini on-screen and proximity to Cole sets my stomach churning, so I decline refreshments.

Our seats are uncomfortable, but sitting so close to Cole, it doesn’t really matter. Boisterous kids in the balcony above hoot and holler while the lower part is almost empty. I try to think of something to say but can’t, so instead I study the other theater patrons. There’s a pair of young women about my age close to the front and a woman holding a baby across the aisle. I glance away and then back, caught by something I don’t understand. The old coat she’s wearing looks like it might have been a man’s, and the blankets swaddling the baby are tattered. But that isn’t what is catching my attention. I’ve seen many poor people in my life, some much worse off than she is.

It’s the pulses of worry and despair coming at me from across the aisle that command my attention. I stare, my heart thudding in my chest. I shut my eyes, but her emotions continue to batter me like breakers against the shore. Why is this happening? I grip the armrests until my fingers hurt. It’s bad enough feeling other people’s emotions when I touch them, but being assaulted by them through thin air is unbearable.

Then as suddenly as it began, it stops. I take a deep, shuddering breath and glance at Cole, who seems unaware of my strange attack of anxiety. I look back at the woman, who is rocking the baby in her arms. I feel nothing. Was it my imagination?

Just when the silence between Cole and me becomes unbearable, he says, “So how long have you been in New York?” His voice is strained as if he, too, was having a hard time thinking of something to say.

“For a little over a month. You?”

“About six weeks. But I’ve been in the States for almost three months. I went to Baltimore first.”

“Oh, are you doing the tour?”

“Something like that.”

We lapse back into silence. So much for that topic. We’re saved when the lights go off and the newsreel starts. We watch in quiet as the famous boxer Jack Dempsey participates in an automobile race, one hundred hot-air balloons take off in Brussels, and officials break up an opium ring in Shanghai. When the flickering images of a movie-star dog doing tricks comes on, Cole actually laughs out loud. The sound sends a tingling warmth from my toes to the top of my head. He looks at me, the light from the screen dancing against the darkness of his eyes, and my breath catches in my throat. Once again, I feel that strange awareness that I felt in the stairwell, that warm connection that I’ve only ever sensed with him. For a moment, we’re caught in each other’s gaze and then the organist starts to play. We both jump, and I laugh self-consciously.

Then I turn back to the flickering images and Cole is forgotten as Houdini fills the screen.

The feature is on.

Dread and anticipation battle inside me as the opening credits roll. Watching his movies raises the age-old question in my mind: Is he really my father?

His charisma, alluring and potent, emanates from the screen in waves. The story line and the printed dialogue that goes with it are simple, but I’m not following it. I’m watching the man who may be my father. His hair is wild, thick, and unruly like always. His eyes are fierce, magnetic. It’s easy to believe that he could have the same abilities that I do—his power is palpable. I watch the escapes with a professional eye. Could I do that? The vision of me underwater flashes in front of my eyes and I shiver. Could I break free of something like that? Will I have to?

Next to me, Cole is completely involved in the movie. The organist is quite good, the music swelling and subsiding with the action. He smiles at the funny bits and tenses at the suspenseful parts.

Across from us, the baby fusses and the woman tries to calm it, jouncing it up and down. Then her anguish washes over me so clearly, I begin to tremble. I clasp my hands together in my lap and look down at the floor, but the sorrow and fear continue to lash at me like a hurricane. My shoulders hunch and I draw inward, trying to protect my heart, which feels as if it’s about to break.

Unable to bear it any longer, I leap out of my seat and scoot past a surprised Cole. Pausing only for a second, I take my emergency ten-dollar coin from my purse and toss it into the woman’s lap. She looks up, startled, but I turn away and race up the aisle.

I run through the lobby and burst out the doors in front. Only then do I pause long enough to take a breath. Moments later, Cole comes through the same door.

“Are you all right?” Worry creases his forehead.

My cheeks flush. “I’m fine. I just forgot I had to do something.”

I turn and start walking away, tears of humiliation forming in my eyes.

“Are you sure you feel well? Do you want me to come with you?”

I hear the concern in his tone but can’t face him. “Everything’s fine. I have to go,” I call over my shoulder. I hurry away through the crowd, frantic to leave Cole, Houdini, and that poor, desperate woman behind me. Then I do what the Van Housen women always do when things go wrong. I run.

Eight

T
he eight of spades. The eight of spades.

My legs shake as we walk down the hall to our dressing room. Mother opens the door and waves me in as if nothing has happened.

But it has.
The eight of spades.

Of course, she doesn’t care. She wouldn’t have been the laughingstock of the show. My fists clench. She’d done it on purpose. Coldly, consciously, and deliberately.

The séance obviously provoked her more than she’d let on.

On her table is a bottle of the chilled French wine she likes to finish her evenings with. By the time she pours herself a glass and takes a sip, I’ve had enough.

I snatch my coat off the coat rack and wrap it around me. Facing her image in the mirror, I glare as she checks her hair and powders her nose. She avoids my eyes even though she knows I’m watching her.

“Why did you do that, Mother? To show me who’s boss?”

“Don’t be sulky, darling. I was just having a bit of fun.”

“Your fun humiliated me,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Oh, please.” Her tone is sharp. “The audience hardly even knew there was a mistake.”

It was supposed to be an easy card trick. I would “force” a card onto a volunteer, make it disappear and then reappear in the pocket of a different “random” member of the audience. It was Mother’s job to plant the correct card earlier in the show. Only tonight it didn’t work out that way.

I’m so mad, I shove aside the caution I usually use in dealing with my mother. “I gave you the eight of spades to plant, but strangely enough, I pulled out the jack of hearts. Now why is that?”

My mother’s mouth tightens. She’s not used to me calling her on the carpet. “Keep your voice down! Like I said, I was just having a bit of fun. You covered it up and it’s over.”

I place both hands on my hips as hurt and angry tears swell in my throat. “It wasn’t fun for me, Mother, and I don’t want it to happen again. Ever.”

Her face stills into an impassive mask as she finally meets my eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Before I leave, I slap a card faceup on her vanity table—the eight of spades, which was still in the pocket of her dress when we came down the hall.

Stomping out, I slam the door behind me for good measure. Then I take a second to catch my breath. It’s coming out in short gasps. I’ve never given her an order like that before. I’m not sure whether to jump up and down in glee or be sick.

Had she really been so angry about the séance that she was willing to jeopardize the show for it? Attack and counterattack. Strategy and schemes. Why is my relationship with my mother more like a chess game than a family bond?

No matter how badly I want to take a taxi home and leave her to stew all by herself, I know I can’t. I lean back against the wall, shaking, and close my eyes. No matter how angry she makes me she’s still my mother, and I have to protect her if I can.

I hear voices and take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to compose myself.

Jacques is approaching me, accompanied by a handsome young stranger with strikingly blond hair. “Are you leaving?”

I nod. “I have a headache.” This isn’t far from the truth.

“I’m so sorry.” Jacques’s words slip from his mouth as if they’ve been lubricated. “I was hoping you would join us for dinner. We have a guest tonight.” He turns toward the young man. “Owen, this is Anna Van Housen. You saw her lively performance earlier. Anna, this is my nephew, Owen Winchester. He surprised me at the show this evening.”

“Enchanted, Miss Van Housen.” Owen takes my hand and kisses it. His blue eyes rove over me, lighting up with appreciation. My stomach gives a little responding flutter. Turns out being looked over like that is much more agreeable when the man in question is young and handsome. I feel a jumble of emotions coming from him—including nervousness and admiration. Could he be nervous about meeting me?

Owen glances at his uncle. “I’ve been in New York for several months now. I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you, but it’s taken me a bit to get settled in. Besides, you’re the one who didn’t keep in touch with the family.”

I can’t help but notice the slight dimples framing his crooked smile. He’s wearing a dapper black evening suit and his blond hair’s longer on the top and slicked back in the latest fashion. My mind jumps to Cole’s neat, close-cropped curls. “Nice to meet you,” I murmur, a warm blush staining my cheeks. Whether it’s because of Owen’s obvious approval or the thought of Cole is hard to tell. I’d blushed on and off ever since my humiliating behavior at the movie theater. I wonder what Cole must think of me.

“I was thinking we could all go out for dinner,” Jacques says, interrupting my thoughts. “But if you aren’t feeling well . . .”

I hesitate, but only for a heartbeat. This young man, no matter how attractive, isn’t enough to tempt me into enduring an evening with my mother. Not after what she pulled tonight.

“That’s all right, Uncle J. I have an early morning anyway. Perhaps I could escort Miss Van Housen safely home? That way, you and her lovely mother could go directly to dinner.”

Jacques frowns. “Perhaps we should . . .”

“That would be very kind, thank you,” I say firmly, taking Owen by the arm. I’m being very forward, but I don’t care. This is Jacques’s nephew, after all. Surely Mother won’t have any objections. If she does, that’s just too bad.

Owen leads me down the dark hall and out into the night. The sidewalk in front of the theater is still packed with audience members waiting for taxis or simply chattering about the show. Usually I love this sight, but I’m not in the mood tonight.

“My car is this way,” Owen says. I follow him down the street.

He glances at me. “That was pretty bold, the way you insisted on leaving. Aren’t you afraid your mother will have kittens? We’re practically strangers.”

“My mother won’t care. I’ve been handling myself in adverse situations all my life.”

He laughs. “I certainly hope you aren’t calling me an adverse situation.”

I blush, praying it’s too dark outside for him to see the color in my cheeks. “Of course not.”

“I knew what you meant. But well done for not letting etiquette stand in your way. The old folks don’t understand that life is much different now than when they were young. Our generation has grown up faster. We’re much more mature than they were at our age.”

I thrill at his sophisticated, worldly tone.

“Your mother doesn’t really strike me as the old-fashioned type, though,” he continues, opening the door to a neat Model T. The scent of gin, leather, and something sweet tickles my nose as I climb in. He starts the car and I give him my address.

“No, my mother is a modern woman,” I say, going back to our conversation. “And for the most part, she’s always treated me as an adult. She’s had to.” When she’s not laying traps for me.